^ 


i 


CHARACTER   AND   COMEDY 


CHARACTER    AND 
COMEDY 


BY 

E.    V.    LUCAS 


NEW    YORK 

THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

1907 


All  Rights  Reserved 


PREFATORY   NOTE 

^PHE  Essays  that  make  up  this  volume  have 
been  collected  by  permission  from  various 
periodicals.  "My  Cousin  the  Bookbinder"  ap- 
peared in  the  Cornhill  Magazine:  the  others  in 
the  OutlooJx,  T.  P.'s  Weekly,  the  County  Gentleman, 
and  the  Academy.  In  almost  every  case  I  have 
altered  and  expanded  the  text,  I  hope  for  the 
better.  The  second  half  of  the  book  consists  of 
a  s,election  from  an  epistolaiy  series  that  ran 
through  Punch,  which  the  proprietors  kindly 
allow  me  to  reprint  here. 

E.  V.   L. 


25637? 


CONTENTS 


I'AGE 

"My  Cousin  the  Bookbinder".  .  .         i 

A  Funeral     .            .            .            .  .  •       H 

Meditations  among  the  Cages   .  .  .20 

Two  Irishmen                      .            .  .  .29 

From  Persia  to  Aberdeen           .  .  -45 

The  Search  and  the  Gift            .  .  -57 

A  Philosopher  that  Failed        .  .  -63 

A  Sketch  Book        .            .            .  .  -70 

The  Beating  of  the  Moofs         .  .  -84 

Our  Gardeners  and  Luck  of  the  Woods  .      98 

Conjurer  and  Confederate        .'  .  .     108 

Sister  Lucie  Vinken          .            .  .  .116 
Life's  Little  Difficulties— 

L  The  Wedding  Present  .  .  .125 

IL  Jane's  Eighth  or  Ninth  .  .     133 

in.  The  Chauffeur    .  .  '4' 

IV.  The  Dedication   .            .  .  -149 


Lii  i:'s  LiTTLi:  DiiricrLTiEs  (continued) — 

\'.  Tin:  Appointmknt      .  •     '57 

\I.  TiiK  Tkstimomal       .  ,164 

\II.  The  Box           .            .  173 


\TII.  Till-:  Doctor's  \'isit 

IX.  TiiK  Loin  of  Pork   . 

X.  TiiK  Shade  of  Blik 

XI.  Tin:    Smithsoxs,    the    Parkinsons,    ani 
Col.   Home-Hopkins 

XII.   ''White  Pininc.s  '     . 
XIII.  The  Christmas  Decorations 
XI\'.  The  Prize  Competition 

X\'.  The  Cricket  Cli  b  Concert 


'79 

.87 

'97 

202 
210 
218 
226 


CHARACTER  &>  COMEDY 


*' My  Cousin  the  Bookbinder"         ^        ^ 

"Oh,  I  am  so  poorly  !  I  waked  it  at  my  cousin's,  the 
bookbinder,  who  is  now  with  God." — C/iar/es  Lamb  to 
P.  G.  Pat  more,  1827 

"  00  you've  been  reading  that^  sir,  have  you? 

^-^  I  have  a  copy  too.  I'll  fetch  it  and  show 
you.  .  .  .  The  inscription  ?  Oh  yes,  that's  all 
right.  He's  my  cousin,  true  enough :  his  real 
name's  not  Elia,  of  course ;  his  real  name's  Lamb 
— Charles  Lamb.  He's  a  clerk  at  the  East  India 
Company's  in  Leadenhall  Street — a  little  dark 
man  with  a  large  head.  Must  be  nearly  fifty  by 
this  time. 

"  ^  Genius,'  you  say  ?  Well,  I've  heard  others  say 
that  too — one  or  two  persons,  that  is  :  customers  of 
mine  ;  but  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  I'm  no  judge 
of  such  things.  I'm  a  bookbinder.  The  outside 
of  books  is  my  line,  not  the  inside.  Oh  yes,  I've 
read  Elia's  Essays — not  all  through,  perhaps,  but 
here  and  there.     Quite  enough  to  tell,  anyway. 

A  I 


*' He  must  Imve  his  Joke" 

'''(iL-nius/  you  s;iy  ?  My  idea  of  genius  is  not 
that.  I  like  a  straightforward  thing.  Did  you 
ever  read  tlie  l''l('g}l  in  ('  ('oiinln/  CJuurJitjard, 
by  Thomas  (iray }  Now,  there's  genius.  So 
beautifully  it  goes — never  a  trip  in  the  tongue 
from  beginning  to  end.  and  everything  so  clear  a 
child  could  understand  it,  and  yet  it's  Hterature 
too.  My  little  girl  used  to  say  it.  Ua.ssclas, 
too — do  you  know  that  ?  The  Happy  Valley  and 
all  the  rest  of  it.  That's  genius,  I  think.  But 
not  this  twisted  stuff  going  backwards  and 
forwards  and  one  never  feeling  quite  sure  how 
to  take  it.  I  like  a  jilain  man  with  a  plain 
mind. 

^'  It's  just  the  same  with  my  cousin  when  you 
meet  him.  You  never  know  what  he's  at.  He's 
so  nice  sometimes,  all  heart,  and  IViendly — and 
then  the  next  time  I  have  a  notion  that  every- 
thing he  says  means  something  else.  He  leads  me 
on  to  talk — just  as  I  am  talking  now  to  you,  sir, — 
and  he  seems  to  agree  with  what  I  say  so  warmly  ; 
and  then  all  of  a  sudden  I  see  that  he's  just 
making  fun  of  me  all  the  time.  lie  nuist  have 
his  joke.  He  comes  in  here  sometimes  on  his 
way  from  the  ofHce,  and  ])recious  little  he  does 
there,  I  can  tell  yon.  Oh,  they're  an  ea^y  lot, 
those  East  India  clerks. 

"  IJut  with  all  his  odd  ways  and  that  mischiev- 
2 


"That  Mischievous   Mouth  of  His" 

ous  mouth  of  his^  his  heart's  in  the  right  place. 
\>ry  difterent  from  his  brother^  Avho  died  a  year 
or  so  back.  He  was  nothing  to  boast  of:  but  tlie 
airs  that  man  used  to  put  on  !  I  remember  his 
father  well — a  little  brisk  man^  wonderfully  like 
Garrick^  full  of  jokes  and  bright,  quick  ways.  He 
was  reall}'  a  scrivener,  but  he  didn't  do  much  of 
that  in  those  days,  having  fallen  into  an  eas}'  place 
with  old  Mr.  Salt,  the  Member  of  Parliament,  and 
a  great  man  in  the  law.  This  Mr.  Salt  lived  in 
the  Temple,  and  little  John  Lamb — that  is  your 
Elia's  father — he  was  his  servant :  did  everything 
for  him  and  lived  in  clover;  Mrs.  Lamb,  she 
cooked.  Mr.  Salt  was  the  generous  kind — sent 
the  boys  to  school  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  They 
had  it  all  their  own  way  till  the  old  gentleman 
died,  and  then  things  went  wrong  one  after  the 
other.      It's  too  sad  to  talk  about.   .   .   . 

''  Except  that  Mrs.  Lamb  and  her  husband's 
sister.  Miss  Sarah — '  Aunt  Hetty '  they  used  to 
call  her — never  quite  hit  it  off,  it  was  as  happy  a 
family  as  you'd  ask  for.  But  there  came  terrible 
times.  .  .  .  It's  too  sad.  Where  was  I  ? — Oh  yes, 
so  you  see  that  Mr.  John  Lamb,  Esquire,  who  died 
the  other  day,  had  little  enough  to  boast  of,  but 
he  walked  about  as  if  he  owned  the  earth.  He 
used  to  come  in  here  now  and  then  to  give  me  an 
order,  and  he  threw  it  to  me  as  if  it  was  a  bone 
3 


'*A  Wonderful  Wise  Woman" 

and  I  was  a  tlofj^.  Many's  the  time  I  had  it  on 
my  tongue  to  remind  him  what  his  father  was, 
but  I  kept  it  back.  A  word  unsaid  is  still  to  say. 
He  was  at  the  South  Sea  House,  near  his  brother 
in  Leadenhall  Street,  but  they  didn't  liave  much 
to  say  to  each  other.  Mr.  John,  he  was  a  big, 
blustering,  ha])py  man,  while  this  little  one 
who  calls  himself  Elia  is  all  for  quietness  and 
not  being  seen,  and  having  his  own  thoughts 
and  his  own  jokes.  1  hey  hadn't  much  in 
common.  .   .   . 

"  Besides,  there  was  another  thing.  There's  a 
sister,  you  must  know,  sir,  a  wonderful  wise 
woman,  but  she's  not  always  quite  right  in  her 
head,  poor  dear  ;  and  when  it  was  a  (juestion  of 
whether  someone  had  to  promise  to  be  responsible 
for  her,  or  she  must  go  to  an  asylum  for  the  rest 
of  her  life,  her  younger  brother,  the  writer  of 
that  book  there,  under  your  arm,  said  he  would  ; 
and  he  gave  up  everything,  and  has  kept  her — it 
was  thirty  years  ago  very  nearly — ever  since. 
Well,  it  was  thought  in  the  family  and  by  their 
friends  that  John,  who  was  a  grown  man  at  the 
time  and  a  bachelor,  and  beginning  to  be  pros- 
])cr()us,  ought  to  have  done  more  than  he  did,  and  I 
think  that  sometimes  he  thought  so  too,  although 
he  was  usually  })retty  well  satisfied  witli  himself 
Anyway,  he  didn't  go  to  see  his  brother  and  sister 
4 


*'No  Jokes  about  Her" 

much,  and  when  he  did  I've  heard  that  there  was 
often  trouble,  because  he  would  have  his  own  way 
and  argufy  until  he  lost  his  temper.  I  was  told 
as  how  he  once  had  a  dispute  with  Mr.  Hazlitt 
the  writer  over  something  to  do  with  painting,  and 
knocked  him  down.  Just  think  of  knocking  a 
man  down  about  a  matter  of  paint !  But  there's 
some  high-handed  men  that  would  quarrel  over 
anything. 

'-  Like  his  little  brother,  he  tried  writing  too, 
but  he  couldn't  do  it.  He  wrote  a  little  tract  on 
kindness  to  animals,  and  brought  it  here  to  be 
bound  in  morocco.  Not  to  give  away,  mind,  but 
to  keep.  '  Author's  Copy  '  I  had  to  letter  it.  .  .  . 
'  Kindness  to  animals,'  I  nearly  said  to  him ; 
'  what  about  kindness  to  sisters  ?  '  But  I  didn't 
say  it. 

'^  The  sister }  Ah  yes,  she's  the  pick.  She's  a 
great  woman,  if  ever  there  was  one.  I  know  her 
better  than  any  of  them,  because  when  they  were 
living  near  here,  and  her  brother — your  Mr. 
Lamb,  the  author  —  was  at  his  office,  I  often 
looked  in  with  a  pork  chop  or  some  little  thing 
like  that.  There's  no  jokes  about  her,  no  saying 
things  that  she  doesn't  mean,  or  anything  like 
that.  She's  all  gold,  my  cousin  Mary  is.  She 
understands  everything,  too.  I've  taken  lots  of 
troubles     to     her — little    difficulties     about     mv 


"  She's  the  Clever  One  " 

children,  and  what  not — and  she  understands 
directly,  for  all  she's  an  old  maid,  and  tells  me 
just  what  I  want  to  know.  She's  the  clever  one. 
She  can  write,  too.  I've  got  a  little  book  of  her 
stories  and  some  poetry  for  children — here  they 
are — I  bound  them  myself;  that's  the  best  bind- 
ing- I  can  do — real  russia,  and  hand  tooling,  every 
bit  of  it.  Did  she  write  all  of  them  .-  No,  she 
didn't  write  all,  but  she  wrote  the  best.  Her 
brother  Charles  did  something  to  each,  but  I 
don't  mind  that.  I  think  of  them  as  her  books — 
Mary's.  If  only  she  had  better  health,  she  would 
write  much  better  than  he  does  ;  but  her  poor 
head.  .  .  .  Every  year,  you  must  know,  she  goes 
out  of  her  mind  for  a  little  while.  Oh,  it's  too 
sad.   .    .   . 

"Have  they  many  friends?  Oh  yes,  a  good 
many.  Most  of  them  are  too  clever  for  me  ;  but 
there  are  some  old-fashioned  ones  too,  that  they 
like  for  old  sakes'  sake.  They're  the  best.  One 
or  two  of  them  are  very  good  customers  of  mine. 
There's  Mr.  Robinson,  the  barrister,  he  brings 
me  lots  of  books  to  mend,  and  I've  had  work  for 
Mr.  Aders,  too.  But  as  for  your  Mr.  Lamb, — 
Klia, — never  a  stitch  will  he  let  you  put  into  any 
book,  even  if  it's  dropping  to  ])ieces.  Why,  he 
won't  even  take  the  dealer's  tickets  otf  tluni. 
He  never  thinks  of  the  outside  of  a  book,  but 
6 


"Life's  full   of  Surprises" 

you  should  see  him  tearing  the  heart  out  of  them- 
by  the  light  of  one  candle.  I'm  told  he  knows 
more  about  what  books  are  worth  reading  than 
anyone  living.  That's  odd,  isn't  it,  and  his  father 
a  little  serving-man !  Life's  full  of  surprises. 
They  say  he  knows  all  about  poetry,  too,  and 
helped  the  great  poets.  There's  Mr.  Wordsworth^ 
why,  he  dedicated  a  book  to  my  cousin, — I've  got 
it  here,  The  Waggoner,  a  pretty  book  it  is,  too, — 
and  Mr.  Coleridge,  who  wrote  about  the  old  sailor 
man  and  the  albatross,  he  let  my  cousin  put  some 
little  poems  of  his  own  into  one  of  his  books.  It 
turns  one  inside  out  when  one  thinks  of  this,  and 
then  of  the  old  days  and  his  father  powdering  Mr. 
Salt's  wig.  But  I  suppose  everyone's  father  had 
to  work  once.  Still,  it's  funnier  when  one  belongs 
to  the  same  family. 

^'  Now  I  come  to  remember  it,  his  father  used 
to  write  a  little  too — free  and  easy  pieces  for  a 
charitable  society  he  belonged  to,  and  so  on.  It's 
odd  how  writing  runs  in  a  family.  But  there 
won't  be  any  more  Lambs  to  write — John  left  no 
children,  only  a  stepdaughter,  and  Charles  and 
Mary  are  single.     This  is  the  end.      Well  .   .   . 

'•  Yes,    they've     moved     from     London     now. 

They're  living  in    Islington.     They  used  to  live 

in  the  Temple,  for  years,  and  then  they  went  to 

Covent    Garden,   over  a   tinman's.      Miss    Lamb 

7 


"Hissing  his  own   Play" 

liked  that  better  than  the  Temple,  but  her  l^rother 
liked  the  Temple  best.  It  <r:i\e  her  more  to  do, 
poor  dear,  durin^r  the  day,  because  her  sitting- 
room  window  looked  over  Bow  Street,  and  she 
could  see  all  that  was  going  on.  I'm  afraid 
Islington  is  ver}-  dull  after  that.  She  could  see 
the  two  great  theatres,  too,  and  they  both  love  the 
play. 

"  He  wrote  a  farce  once.  I  went  to  see  it. 
Nearly  twenty  years  ago,  at  the  Lane,  when 
PLlliston  had  it.  We  had  orders  for  the  pit,  my 
wife  and  I,  and  the  house  was  full  of  clerks  from 
the  South  Sea  House  and  the  East  India  House. 
Ikit  it  wouldn't  do.  Mr.  II.  it  was  called,  and 
the  whole  joke  was  about  the  man's  full  name. 
But  it  wouldn't  do.  No  one  really  minds  names, 
and  his  wasn't  so  monstrously  bad — only  Hogsflesh 
when  all  was  said  and  done.  All  his  friends  did 
what  we  could  for  it,  and  the  gentlemen  from 
the  great  offices  cheered  and  clajiped,  l)ut  the 
Noes  got  it.  I  never  heard  such  hissing.  I 
climbed  up  on  the  seat  to  see  how  poor  Miss 
I^amb  and  her  brother  were  taking  it, — they  were 
right  in  front,  just  by  the  orchestra, — and  there 
was  he,  hissing  away  louder  than  anyone.  Think 
of  it,  liissing  his  own  play  I  It's  one  of  the  best 
jokes  I  ever  heard.  Hut  she,  jioor  dear,  she  was 
just  crying. 

8 


"  Mr.   Dyer,   the  Writer  " 

"No,  he  never  tried  the  stage  again,  not  to 
my  knowledge.  But  I  always  say  it  wasn't  a  bad 
little  play.  If  he'd  only  have  let  his  sister  touch  it 
u}),  it  would  have  been  all  right.  She  would  have 
told  him  that  Hogsflesh  wasn't  a  good  enough  joke. 
She  knows.  .  .  . 

"  I  w  ent  up  to  Islington  to  see  them  only  last 
week,  but  he  was  out.  A  nice  little  cottage,  but 
very  quiet  for  her.  Nothing  to  see  but  the 
houses  over  the  way,  and  the  New  River,  and 
the  boys  fishing  for  sticklebacks  all  day  long.  The 
river's  absolutely  in  front  of  the  house  :  nothing 
between  you  and  it.  Have  you  ever  heard  of  Mr. 
Dyer,  the  writer  ?  An  old  man,  nearly  blind.  Well, 
he  was  coming  away  from  my  cousin's  one  day 
last  year,  and  he  walked  bang  into  the  water 
before  anyone  could  stop  him.  Plump  in.  It's 
a  wonder  he  wasn't  drowned.  There  was  an 
account  of  it  in  the  London  Magazine  for 
December ;  for  my  cousin's  a  terrible  man  to 
serve  up  his  friends  and  have  jokes  against  them. 
He  writes  about  everything  just  as  it  happens. 
I'm  always  expecting  he'll  have  me  in  one  of  his 
essays.  In  fact,  to  tell  you  a  secret,  sir,  that's 
why  I  read  them.  But  I  don't  think  he's  got  me 
yet. 

"Yes,  Islington's  very  different  from  Covent 
Garden,  and  the  Temi)le  too ;  for  though  the 
9 


"She  has   her  Thoughts" 

Teni})lc  is  quiet  enough,  you've  only  got  to  pop 
into  Fleet  Street  to  be  in  the  thick  of  everything. 
When  they  lived  there  she  used  to  like  doing  her 
sho})ping  in  Fetter  Lane,  because  it  was  at  the 
top  of  the  lane  that  she  used  to  go  to  school 
years  and  years  ago.  For  she's  getting  to  be 
an  old  woman,  you  know.  Let  me  see,  how  old 
is  she  } — ^Vhy,  let's  see,  when  was  Mary  born  ? 
It  must  have  been  iTb'.S;  no,  it  was  17()1-.  ^^  hy, 
she'll  be  sixty  this  year. 

"What  does  she  do  all  day  .^  Well,  she  reads 
a  great  deal,  stories  for  the  most  part.  And  she 
sews.  She's  very  good  with  her  needle.  And 
then  she  has  her  thoughts.  And  at  night  they 
play  cards.  He  gets  back  pretty  soon,  you  know. 
Those  Kast  India  gentlemen  they  don't  do  too 
much,  I  can  tell  you,  and  I'm  told  he's  one  of 
the  laziest.  Always  either  talking  or  writing 
letters,  I  hear.  There's  a  good  story  of  him 
down  there.  One  of  the  superiors  met  him 
coming  in  at  about  half-past  ten,  and  he  said  to 
liim,  sharp-like,  '  Mr.  Lamb,'  he  said,  '  you  come 
very  late.'  And  what  do  you  think  my  cousin 
said,  the  impudent  little  fellow  t  '  Yes,'  he  said, 
as  cool  as  you  like,  ^  yes,'  he  said,  'but  sto  how 
early  I  go,'  he  said.  I  can't  say  it  as  he  did, 
because  he  stammers  and  stutters  and  I'm  no 
mimic:    but  the  brass  of  it   shut    the  gentleman 

lO 


"  That's  like  Good  Women  " 

up.  My  cousin  told  me  himself.  He  likes  to 
tell  you  his  good  things  ;  but  I  can't  understand 
a  lot  of  them.  Everyone  has  a  different  idea  of 
what's  funny.  I'm  with  him,  though,  about  old 
Munden  :   I  could  laugh  at  him  all  night. 

"I'm  troubled  about  them  up  there,  so  far 
from  London  and  the  theatres  and  the  noise. 
It's  a  mistake  to  give  up  so  much  all  at  once. 
And  they've  given  up  their  regular  evenings,  too, 
when  people  came  in  to  play  cards  and  talk. 
You  can't  ask  busy  folk  to  go  to  Islington. 

"  My  cousin  told  me  some  bad  news  last  week. 
She  says  that  your  Mr.  Lamb,— Elia,— although  he 
has  such  an  easy  time  and  a  large  salary,  wants 
to  leave  the  East  India  Llouse  and  do  nothing.  I 
hope  they  won't  let  him.  I  know  enough  of  life 
and  of  him  to  see  what  a  mistake  it  would  be. 
It  was  a  mistake  to  go  to  Islington  :  it  will  be  a 
worse  mistake  to  retire.  He  says  he  wants  to 
live  in  the  country ;  but  he  doesn't  really. 
Authors  don't  know  what  they  want.  I  always 
say  that  every  author  ought  to  have  a  book- 
binder to  advise  him. 

"She  knows  it's  all  wrong,  poor  dear,  but  what 
can  she  do  .>  He  worries  so.  She  sees  him  all 
miserable,  and  after  she's  said  all  she  can  against 
his  plans,  she  agrees  with  them.  That's  like  good 
women.  When  they  see  that  what  must  be  must 
II 


"Not  quite  a   Genius" 

be,  they  do  their  best.  IJut  it  is  very  sad.  .  .  . 
It's  her  I'm  so  sorry  for.  He's  the  kind  of  m.iii 
that  ou<?ht  to  go  to  business  every  day. 

"  Well,  sir,  good-nifrht  to  you.  I  ]i<)])e  I  haven't 
been  tedious  ^vith  all  my  talk. 

"No,  sir,  not  (juite  a  n^cnius  ;  but  very  clever,  I 
grant  you." 


P.S. — Of  Lamb's  cousin,  the  bookbinder  (now 
with  God),  to  whom  there  are  two  or  three 
references  in  the  Letters,  nothing  is  really  known, 
save  that  he  died  in  1  S^JT,  and  Lamb  "  waked  it  "  at 
his  funeral  to  some  purpose.  He  may  have  been 
(and  it  is  my  theory  that  he  was)  only  a  distant 
cousin,  lint  if  he  were  a  first  cousin,  he  was  probably 
the  son  of  that  aunt  of  whom  we  have  no  information 
save  that  she  gave  the  little  Charles  Lamb  the  cake 
which  he  gave  to  a  beggar.  It  is  known  that  John 
Lamb  had  two  sisters — Aunt  Hetty,  who  was  un- 
married and  lived  with  the  Lambs  for  twcntv  years, 
and  one  other.  'I'his  may  have  been  the  book- 
binder's mother.  I  assume  this  aunt  to  be  distinct 
from  ;\unt  1  Ictty,  because  Ljimb  says  that  she  gave 
him  the  cake  on  a  holiday, and  he  returned  to  school 
by  way  of  London  Hridge.     This  would  locate  her 

12 


Elia  was  just  Published 

in  SoutliAvark,  where  the  Lamb  family  never  lived  ; 
but  of  course  Aunt  Hetty  may  have  sojourned  in 
Southwark  for  a  little^  and  her  nephew  may  have 
visited  her  there.  I  feel  certain  that  when  he 
made  London  Bridge  the  scene  of  the  adventure 
with  the  beggar,  he  meant  it :  it  was  not  over  such 
reminiscences  that  he  mystified  his  readers.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  bookbinder — if  we  are  to 
entertain  the  first-cousin  theory — may  have  been 
a  son  of  a  brother  or  sister  of  Lamb's  mother  ;  but 
nothing  is  ever  said  of  any  such  relations  of  hers. 
Most  probably,  I  think,  the  bookbinder  was  not  a 
first  cousin,  and  belonged  to  an  older  generation. 
In  1827  Lamb  was  fifty-two;  probably  the  book- 
binder was  seventy.  I  have  chosen  early  1824  as 
the  time  of  this  conversation,  because  Elia  was 
just  published. 


13 


A  Funeral  <^        ^:>        ^:>        <:^        ^> 

TT  -was  in  a  ^iii'roy  x-luirchy.ird  on  a  grev,  damp 
afternoon — all  very  solitary  and  quiet,  with 
no  aligmspectators  and  only  a  very  few  mourners  ; 
and  no  desolating  sense  of  loss,  although  a  very 
true  and  kindly  friend  Avas  passing  from  us.  A 
football '^B^tft+<4*  was  in  progress  in  a  field  adjoining 
the  churcliyard,  and  I  wondered,  as  1  stood  by 
the  grave,  if,  were  I  the  schoolmaster,  \  would 
stop  the  game  just  for  the  few  minutes  during 
which  a  body  was  committed  to  the  earth  :  and  I 
decided  that  I  would  not.  In  the  midst  of  death 
we  are  in  life,  just  as  in  the  midst  of  life  we  are 
in  death  ;  it  is  all  as  it  should  be  in  this  l)i/„irre. 
jostling  world.  And  he  whom  we  hail  come  to 
bury  would  have  been  the  first  to  wish  the  boys 
to  go  on  with  their  sj)ort. 

j  He  was  an  old   scholar — not  so  very  old,  ^thvr 

— w-hom  I  had  known  for  some  five  years,  and  iiad 

many  a  long  walk  with  :  a   short  and   sturdy  Irisli 

14 


A  Honeyed  Memory 

gentleman,  with  a  large,  genial  grey  head  stored 
with  odd  loffe  aiul  the  best  literature  ;  and  the 
heart  of  a  child.  I  never  knew  a  man  of  so  tran- 
s])arent  a  character.  He  showed  you  all  his 
thoughts  :  ,rtS::^sam£(me-ouGe  said,  his  brain  \^as 
like -aiJjaM4l*¥e' under  glass — you  could  watdi  all 
its  workings.  And  the  honey  in-  it!  To  walk 
with  him  at -any  season  of  the- year  was  to  be 
reminded  or  ue\fly  tolct^c/t  tlie'  best  that  the 
English  poets  have  said  on  all  the 'phenomena  of 
wood-aiid  Uedg^eriw,  mtadoiv  aiid^^sky.  He  had 
the  4Hiee  lyrical  passages  of  Shakespeare  at  his 
tongue's  end,  and  all  Wordsworth  and  Keats. 
These  were  his  ftivourit^s  ;  but  he  had_i;ead^ every- 
thing that  "^vi  tlic  tTiT^-*-~yaY»ttrrftus.>4iQte,  and 
had  forgotten  none  of  its  spirit. 

His  life  was    divided    between    his  books,  his 

friends,    and    long    walks.       A    solitary    man,    he 

worked  at  all  hours  without  much  method,  and 

probably^j2<>wted  his  fatal  illness  in  this  way.    -T«~ 

his  own  name  there  is  not    much  to  show  ;  but 

such  was   his  4-iberality  that    he  was  continually 

helping  others,  and  the  fruits  of  his  jeruditiou  are 

widely  scattered,  ?md-havegone  to  increase  many 

a -iiomparative    stranger's    reputation.       His  own 

^\)iagnu7n  opus  he  left  unfinished  ;  he  had  worked 

'  at  it  for  years,  until  to  his  friends  it  had  come  to 

be  something  of  a  joke.     But  though  still  ^Ivvjad'e^s, 

15 


.a' 


,       I         -'     .  t^     ^^'^^   ^>^^ 

,  ,  ^  Sturdy  Qui)totism 

it  ^vas  a  "ri-fat  feat,  as  the  >vorlcl,  I    liopc,  will  one 
(lay  know.      If,  ho^wever,  tlU^  ti'catHir^  does    not 
reach  the-  Avorld,  it  will  not  be  because  it^;  wurth/ 
^>t!**'=4i»»#TrtPTrt,    but     because     no    one    can    be 
found  to  decipher  the  manuscript;  for  I   may  say 
incidentally  that  our  old  friend  wrote  the  worst 
hand  in  London,  and  it  was  not  an  uncommon  ex- 
perience of  his  correspondents  to  carry  his  nns>ives 
from  one  pair  of  eyes  to  another,  seeking  a  clue  ; 
and   I   remember  on  one  occasion  two   such   in- 
quirers meeting   unexpectedly,  and    each    sinud- 
taneously  drawing  a  letter  from  his  i)()cket  and 
uttering  the  request  that  the  other  should  })ut  every- 
thing else  on  one  side  in  order  to  solve  the  enigma. 
Lack  of  method  and  a  haphazard  and  unlimited 
generosity  were  not  his  only  Irish  (jualities.      Y\{t 
had    a    quick,    chivalrous    temper,    top^    and     I    ' 
remember  the  difficulty  I  once  had  iir"testra!ning 
him  from  leaping  the  counter  of  a  small   t^lsiwi^eo- 
rrt+»t^v4»-GTCat,  Portlaiul  T^rect,  to  give  the  man  a 
goocf^di-jtiSiiiiig.  for  an  imaginetl,  rudeness — not  to 
himsolf,  but -4<^-me.     And    there    is   more    thftu 
on'^^nw    conductor    in  *4.<>»idoTj    who    has    cause 
t^    remember    this    sturdy   i^nixoHc    ])assenger's 
championshipofai)obr  woman  to  whom  insufficient 
courtesy    seemed    to    him    to    have    been    shown. 
Normally  kindly  and   tolerant,  his  indiirnation  on 
lic.iriiig  of  injiislicc  was  \v(\    hot.       Ik-  burut'd   at 

i6 


Convivial  Alchemists  h         i 

a  story  of  meanness.  It  would  haunt  him  att-^he 
evening.  "  6an-ttt4?e«lly  be  true  ?  "  he  would  ask, 
a^idr4>ttrst  forth-iigam-i«to  iiain^.  (^-^f  6i 'jj^^-^^-^^  ' 

Abstemious  himself  in  all  things,  save  reading 
and  writing  and  helping  his  friends  and  corre- 
spondents, he"mi*€d  excellent  whisky  punch,  as 
he  called  it.  He  brought  to  this  office  all  the 
concentration  which  he  lacked  in  his  literary 
labours.  It  was  a  ritual  with  him  ;  nothing 
might  be  hurried  or  left  undone,  and  the  result, 
X-^iwght  say,  justified  the  means.  Jlis  death 
reduces  the  number  of  such  convivial  alchemists 
to  one  only,  and  he  is  in  Tasmania,  and,  so  far  as 
I  am  concerned,  useless. 

Hisyavidity  as  a  reader — his  desire  to  master 
his  subject — ^led  to  some  charming  eccentricities, 
as  when,  for  a  dailyjourney  between  Earl's  Court 
Road  and  Addison  Road  stations,  he  would  caiTy 
a  heavy  hand-bag  filled  with  books,  "  to  read  in 
the  train."  This  was  no  satire  on  the  railway 
system,  but  pure.-»eal.  He  had  indeed  no  satire 
in  him  ;  he  spoke  his  mind  and  it  was  over."^ 

It  was  a  curious  little  company  that  assembled 
to  do  honour  to  this  old  kindly  bachelor — the  two 
or  three  relatives  that  he  possessed,  and  eight  of 
his  literary  friends,  most  of  them  of  a  good  age, 
and  for  the  most  part  men  of  intellect,  and  in  one 
or  two  cases  of  world-wide  reputation,  and  all  a 
B  17 


Graveside  Regrets 

little  uncomfortable  in  unwonted  formal  black. 
We  were  very  o;^rave  and  thoughtful,  but  it  was 
not  exactly  a  sad  funeral,  for  we  knew  that  had 
he  lived  longer — he  was  sixty-three — he  would 
certainly  have  been  an  invalid,  which  would  have 
irked  his  active,  restless  mind  and  body  almost 
unbearably  ;  and  we  knew,  also,  that  he  had  died 
in  his  first  real  illness  after  a  very  hapjiy  life. 
Since  we  knew  this,  and  also  that  he  was  a 
bachelor  and  almost  alone,  those  of  us  who  were 
not  his  kin  w^ere  not  melted  and  unstrung  by  that 
poignant  sense  of  untimely  loss  and  irreparable 
removal  that  makes  some  funerals  so  tragic  ;  but 
death,  however  it  come,  is  a  mystery  before 
which  one  cannot  stand  unmoved  and  unregret- 
ful ;  and  I,  for  one,  as  I  stood  there,  remembered 
how  easy  it  would  have  been  oftener  to  have 
ascended  to  his  eyrie  and  lured  him  out  into 
Hertfordshire  or  his  beloved  K])})ing,  or  even 
have  dragged  him  away  to  dinner  and  whisky 
punch  ;  and  1  found  myself  meditating,  too,  as 
the  ])rofoundly  im))ressive  service  rolled  on,  how 
melancholy  it  was  that  all  that  storied  brain,  with 
its  thousands  of  exquisite  ])hrases  and  its  perhaps 
unrivalled  knowledge  of  Shakespearean  j)hilology, 
should  have  ceased  to  be.  For  such  a  cessation, 
at  any  rate,  say  what  one  will  of  innnortality.  is 
j)art  ol"  the  sting  of  death,  p.irt  of  tlu'  victory  of 
I  8 


God  smiles  at  Skull-caps 

the    grave,    %vhic'li     St.     Paul    denied    ^itli    sucli 
magnificent  irony. 

And  then  we  filed  out  into  the  churchyard,  which 
is  a  new  and  very  large  one,  although  the  church 
is  old,  and  at  a  snail's  pace,  led  by  the  clergyman, 
we  crept  along,  a  little  black  company,  for,  I 
suppose,  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  under  the 
cold  grey  sky.  As  I  said,  many  of  us  were  old, 
and  most  of  us  were  indoor  men,  and  I  was 
amused  to  see  how  close  to  the  head  some  of 
us  held  our  hats— the  merest  barleycorn  of 
interval  being  maintained  for  reverence'  sake ; 
whereas  the  sexton  and  the  clergyman  had  slipped 
on  those  black  velvet  skull-caps  which  God,  in 
His  infinite  mercy,  either  completely  overlooks, 
or  seeing,  smiles  at.  And  there  our  old  friend 
was  committed  to  the  earth,  amid  the  contending 
shouts  of  the  football  players,  and  then  we  all 
clapped  our  hats  on  our  heads  with  firmness  (as 
he  would  have  wished  us  to  do  long  before),  and 
returned  to  the  town  to  drink  tea  in  an  ancient 
hostelry,  and  exchange  memories,  quaint,  aiul 
humorous,  and  touching,  and  beautiful,  of  the 
dead. 


19 


Meditations  among  the  Cages         ^        ^> 

T^HIFTlNCi  somewhat  aimlessly  about  the  Zoo 
on  Sunday  afternoon,  I  came  suddenly  upon 
the  hip})0})()tamus's  vast  and  homely  countenance 
j)eering  round  the  corner  of  its  stockade.  It  is 
the  hugest,  most  incredible  thing — ^just  for  an 
instant  a  little  like  the  late  Herbert  Campbell 
carried  out  to  the  highest  power — and  I  felt  for 
the  moment  as  if  I  were  in  another  world,  a  kind 
of  impossible  })antomime  land.  There  Avas  nothing 
frightening  about  it  ;  it  was  more  companionable 
than  many  faces  that  sit  opposite  one  in  a  'bus; 
and  yet  it  was  repellent,  un-negotiable,  absurd. 
It  is  not  a  thing  to  see  suddenly. 

This  hippoj)otamus,  who  is  now  thirty  years  or 
more  old,  shows  signs  of  age.  Her  feet  are  sore, 
her  eyes  are  scaly,  her  teeth  are  few  and  awry 
and  very  brown.  In  bulk  she  is  innnense,  of  a 
rotund  solidity  unccjualled  in  mv  e\))erience.  The 
(Iri-at  Tun,  lillrd  \\'\\.\\  its  gallons,  would,  one 
20 


The  Weighty  Hippopotamus 

feels,  be  light  compared  with  her.  1  could  not 
help  wondering  what  will  happen  when  she  dies, 
as  die  she  must  before  very  long:  how  her 
ffiffantic  carcase  will  be  moved,  how  dealt  with, 
how  eliminated.  I  am  sure  her  lifeless  form  will 
be  the  heaviest  thing  in  London — heavier  than 
any  girder,  heavier  than  any  gun.  One  has  this 
impression,  T  suppose,  because  one  knows  some- 
thing of  the  weight  of  an  ordinary  body,  and 
one's  mind  multiplies  that,  whereas  a  girder  or 
a  gun  conveys  no  distinct  impression.  Even  the 
baby  hippopotami,  in  the  next  cage,  ridiculous 
little  i)igs  of  hippos,  fresh  from  their  packing-case 
and  the  voyage  from  Africa,  are  probably  each 
heavier  than  four  aldermen  ;  but  the  old  one  is  fifty 
times  heavier  than  the  baby,  and  might  easily, 
such  is  the  consistency  of  her  alarming  barrel,  be 
full  of  lead.  When  her  tottering  legs  at  length 
give  way  and  she  falls  to  rise  no  more,  may  I  not 
be  there  to  see  ! 

Standing  before  this  ridiculous  mammoth,  so 
useless  and  unwieldy,  I  failed  utterly  to  under- 
stand the  feelings  of  the  big-game  hunter  who 
could  deliberately  shoot  it.  If  ever  there  was 
an  animal  that  should  inculcate  or  encourage  the 
maxim  "Live  and  let  live,"  it  is  the  hippo- 
potamus. I  cannot  understand  how  a  man  can 
dare    to     be    responsible    for    adding    so    much 


The  best  Short-slip 


niorlality  to  this  already  enciiinhered  cartli.  Ami 
yet  there  are  meinhers  of  West  I'.nd  eliibs  sipjiinor 
their  coffee  at  this  moment  Avho  have  probably 
shot  many.  To  kill  a  lion  or  ti«i^er,  or  any  of 
the  active,  dangerous  beasts:  I  can  muUrstand 
that,  althoiio;h  I  wish  never  to  do  it ;  but  to 
interrupt  the  already  stagnant  life  of  one  of 
these  gentle  mountains — tliat  I  could  never  bring 
myself  to  do.  How  can  one  kill  a  creature  that 
wallows  ? 

Falling  in  later  with  a  zoological  Fellow,  with 
a  head  full  of  Greek  and  a  pocket  full  of  apples 
and  onions,  without  which  he  never  visits  these 
friends,  I  learned  many  curious  fticts.  Among 
other  things,  1  learned  that  the  hornbill,  who 
looks  a  desperately  fierce  biped,  prepared  at  a 
second's  notice  to  stab  one  with  his  iron  beak, 
even  in  the  back,  is  really  the  kindliest  and  most 
companionable  of  birds,  ready  and  eager  for  any 
amount  of  j)etting.  He  is  also,  j^erhaps,  the  best 
short-slip  in  the  Gardens,  for  unwieldy  as  his  beak 
looks  to  be,  he  can  catch  anything,  throw  it  how 
you  may.  Albert  Trott  has  hitherto  been  my 
ideal,  but  he  reigns  in  my  mind  no  more.  Le  roi 
I'sl  tnort  ;   rirc  riionihilL 

I  cannot  get  over  my  surprise  about  the  horn- 
bill,  whose  favourite  food,  it  ought  to  be  known, 
is  grapes.  No  animal  looks  nnich  less  tractable 
22 


Pel's  Owl 

and  nursable  ;  yet  as  a  matter  of  fact  the  horn- 
bill  is  as  anxious  to  be  noticed  as  a  spoiled  dog, 
and  as  full  of  sentimentality.  Best  of  all — even 
more  than  grapes — he  likes  to  be  scratched  under 
the  chin,  and  he  leans  his  head  farther  and  farther 
back  in  the  enjoyment  of  this  ecstasy,  until  his 
bill  points  into  the  sky  like  the  spire  of  a  village 
church. 

In  close  proximity  to  the  hornbills  live  the  boat- 
bill,  who  is  as  lovely  as  a  Japanese  print,  and 
Pel's  Owl,  who  has  perhaps  the  richest  eyes  in 
the  whole  Zoo,  and  not  the  least  melancholy  life  ; 
for  he,  accustomed  to  Hy  lightly  and  noiselessly 
over  the  surface  of  African  rivers,  catching  un- 
wary fish  in  his  claws  as  he  flies,  is  now  confined 
to  a  cage  within  a  cage,  a  few  feet  square.  What 
must  be  his  thoughts  as  he  watches  the  sight- 
seers go  by !  What  must  be  the  thoughts  of  all 
these  caged  aliens  !  The  seals  and  sea-lions,  one 
can  believe,  are  not  unhappy ;  the  otter  is  in  his 
element ;  the  birds  in  the  large  aviaries,  the- 
monkeys,  the  snakes — these,  one  feels,  are  not 
so  badly  off.  But  the  beasts  and  birds  of  o 
higher  spirit,  a  mounting  ambition — the  eagles 
and  hawks  and  lions  and  tigers,  and  Pel's  Owl — 
what  a  destiny  !  What  a  future  !  I  would  not 
think  their  thoughts. 

I  learned  also  from  my  instructive  Fellow  thaf; 
23 


Eagle  and  Thar 

one  of  the  llamas  can  cxjiectorate  with  more  })re- 
cision  and  less  >varninfr  than  any  American  de- 
scribed by  the  old  satirists ;  that  the  IJird  of 
Paradise,  exquisite  and  beautiful  though  he  is, 
with  every  right  to  be  disdainful  and  eremitic, 
will  yet  cling  to  the  sides  of  the  cage  to  eat  a 
piece  of  apple  from  the  hand,  and,  having  taken 
it,  swallow  it  whole  ;  that  the  most  westerly  owl 
in  the  owl  house  will  say  "woof-woof"  after  any- 
one that  it  esteems ;  that  eagles  like  having  their 
heads  stroked,  and  that  there  is  one  of  them  who, 
if  you  give  it  a  lead,  will  crow  like  a  cock.  I 
doubt  if  such  things  should  be.  I  like  to  think 
of  the  eagle  as  soaring  into  the  face  of  the  sun 
with  an  unwinking  eye,  and  allowing  no  liberties. 
But  in  Regent's  Park.  ...  I  suppose  we  must 
make  allowances.  Does  not  the  rhinoceros  eat 
biscuits  f 

I  learned  also  that  the  thar  loves  orange-peel 
above  all  delicacies,  and  that  the  mountain  goat 
who  possesses  the  biggest  horns  can  bring  them 
down  on  the  railings  with  a  thwack  that,  if  your 
finger  chanced  to  be  there,  as  it  easily  might, 
would  assuredly  cut  it  in  two  ;  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  that  the  slender,  graceful  deer  in  tiie  ju'ii 
near  the  elephants,  who  has  lately  lost  one  horn, 
is  as  gentle  as  a  spaniel  and  greatly  in  need  of 
sympathy. 

24 


In  Delia's  Arbour 

I  learned,  also,  that  the  baby  elephant  eats 
Quaker  oats  ;  and  that  there  are  keepers  m  the 
Gardens  who  have  never  yet  seen  the  beaver,  not 
because  they  keep  looking  the  opposite  way,  but 
because  that  creature  is  so  unaccountably  shy. 
The  only  chance  one  has  of  catching  a  glimpse 
of  him  is  at  sunset. 

But  the  introduction  to  Delia  was  the  crown 
of  the  morning — the  coping-stone  of  my  good 
fortune  in  meeting  this  zoological  friend.  We 
spent  an  hour  in  her  company,  while  she  toyed 
with  an  assorted  fruitarian  dinner.  1  should  not 
call  her  a  slave  to  her  palate :  I  never  remember 
seeing  a  non-human  animal  (is  she  a  non-human 
animal,  I  wonder  ?)  so  willing  to  drop  a  delicacy 
and  turn  to  other  things.  She  turned  with  chief 
interest  to  my  walking-stick  ;  but  now  and  then 
the  trapeze  caught  her  restless  eye,  and  she  was 
on  it ;  and  now  and  then  it  seemed  to  be  time 
to  embrace  or  to  be  embraced.  A  very  simple, 
loving  soul,  this  Delia  (is  she  a  soul,  has  she  a 
soul,  I  wonder?),  with  the  prettiest  little  thumb 
imaginable  —  for  an  ourang-outang,  and,  so  far 
as  I  could  observe,  no  arricrcs  pensces.  Clean, 
too.      In  fact,  quite  one  of  us. 

Delia  is  the  first  ape  I  ever  saw  that  did  not 
make  me  uneasy.      So  many  monkeys — especially 
the  larger  apes — are  such  travesties  of  ourselves 
25 


The  Diving  Birds 

— and  not  only  such  travesties,  hut  now  .mcl 
then  such  reminders  of  our  worse  selves — that 
one  regards  them  with  an  increased  scepticism 
as  to  man's  part  not  only  in  this  life,  hut  in  the 
next.  But  Delia  is  "winsome ;  Delia  has  the 
virtues.  She  is  kind,  and  gentle,  and  quiet.  All 
her  movements  are  deliberate  and  well  thought 
out.  She  has  none  of  the  dreadful  furtive  sus- 
piciousness of  the  smaller  monkeys  ;  so  far  as  1 
coukl  see,  no  pettiness  at  all.  And  the  hair  that 
serves  her  also  for  clothes,  like  Lady  Godiva,  is 
a  very  beautiful  rich  auburn.  I  cherish  her 
memory. 

It  was  the  more  jileasant  to  come  under  Delia's 
fascination,  because  1  had  just  seen  that  horrible 
sight,  the  feeding  of  the  diving  birds.  Here,  at 
the  most,  one  said  in  Delia's  warm  basement- 
room — here,  at  the  most,  is  only  mischief  and 
want  of  thought ;  here  are  no  cruel  predatory 
jaws  })ursuing  their  living  i)rey.  The  diving 
birds  give  one,  indeed,  a  new  symbol  for  rapacity 
and  relentlessness,  partly  because  the  victims, 
which  they  catch  with  such  accuracy  and  fenn-ity, 
are  so  exquisitely  made  for  joy  and  life.  Can 
there  be  anything  more  beautiful  than  a  slender 
diaphanous  fish,  gliding  through  the  water  with 
the  light  of  day  inhabiting  its  fragile  body  r  'i'he 
moNcmcnts  of  a  fish  are  in  themselves  grace  in- 
26 


Eland  and  Mouse 

carnate.  The  keeper  flings  a  dozen  of  these 
Httle  miracles  into  the  tank,  and  straightway 
they  begin  their  magical  progress  through  the 
green  water.  He  then  opens  a  cage,  and  a  huge 
black  and  white  bird,  all  cruel  eye  and  snapping 
beak,  plunges  in,  and  in  two  minutes  it  has 
seized  and  swallowed  every  fish.  The  spectacle 
ap})eared  to  be  very  popular ;  but  I  came  away 
sick. 

I  walked  from  Delia's  boudoir  to  the  lions, 
and  from  the  lions  to  the  sea-lions,  by  way  of 
the  long  row  of  sheds  where  the  nilghais  and 
hartebeests  and  elands  dwell,  and  found  that  the 
real  interest  of  this  house  lay,  not  in  those  aliens, 
but  in  a  domestic  creature  which,  common 
though  it  be  in  English  homes,  is  yet  not  too 
easy  to  observe — the  mouse.  If  you  want  to  see 
the  mouse  at  ease,  confidently  moving  hither  and 
thither,  and  taking  its  meals  with  a  mind  secure 
from  danger,  go  to  the  Zoo,  nominally  to  study 
the  eland.  It  is  no  injustice  to  the  eland,  who 
cares  nothing  for  notice,  therein  differing  com- 
pletely from  the  male  giraffe,  who  looks  after 
his  departing  friends  with  a  moist  and  wistful 
eye  and  a  yearning  extension  of  neck  that  only 
the  stony-hearted  can  resist.  The  eland  is  less 
affectionate  ;  he  has  no  timidity,  and  he  has  no 
vanity.  He  does  not  mind  what  you  look  at,  and 
27 


The  Pickpocket 

therefore  you  may  lavish  all  your  attention  on 
the  mice  tliat  move  about  among  his  legs  like 
the  shadows  of  little  racing  clouds  on  a  windy 
Aj)ril  day. 

And  so  I  came  away,  having  seen  everything 
in  the  Zoo  except  the  most  advertised  animal  of 
all — the  })ickpocket.  To  see  so  many  visitors 
to  the  cages  wearing  a  patronising  air,  and  to 
hear  their  remarks  of  condescension  or  dislike, 
as  animal  after  animal  is  jiassed  under  review, 
has  a  certain  })iquancy  in  the  contiguity  of  this 
ever  present  notice,  "  Beware  of  Piek})ockets," 
warning  man  against — what  ? — man.  Lions,  at 
any  rate,  one  feels  (desirable  as  it  may  be  to 
caj)ture  their  skins  for  hearthrugs),  pick  no 
pockets. 


28 


Two  Irishmen     <:><:>        <^        ^^        ^^ 

'T^HEY  are  King  Bagenal  and  Edward  Edge — 
the  autocrat  and  the  gate-keeper.  They 
have  nothing  in  common  save  their  race  and 
their  genuineness  ;  but  a  book  of  essays,  like  mis- 
fortune, makes  strange  bedfellows. 

Of  King  Bagenal  I  have  discovered  very  little  ; 
but  it  is  all  splendid.  He  was  a  king  only  by 
the  courtesy  of  the  countryside,  who  knew  the 
royal  stamp  when  they  saw  it ;  to  the  postman  he 
was  Mr.  Bagenal,  of  Dunleckny,  in  the  county  of 
Carlow.  But  if  ever  regality  coursed  through  a 
wild  Irishman's  veins.  .  .  .  You  could  not  qualify 
for  the  throne  of  a  Bagenal  merely  by  swagger 
and  bluster :  you  had  to  be  what  you  professed  to 
be ;  you  had  to  be  a  king  right  through.  And 
there  is  this  to  be  said  of  the  kings  that  get  their 
title  from  their  neighbours — that  they  are  kings 
in  fact,  whereas  a  king  in  the  more  ordinary  sense, 
who  comes  to  the  title  by  descent,  can  very  easily 
29 


King  Bagenal's  Pistols 

be  no  king  at  all.  His  throne  may  bean  accident, 
and  he  may  never  do  more  than  sit  nervously  on 
the  edge  of  it ;  but  a  King  Bagenal  leans  back 
and  lolls. 

He  was  superb  in  his  lawlessness  and  authority. 
Only  two  creators  could  have  made  King  Bagenal. 
One  is  the  God  of  Ireland  ;  the  other  is  Cieorge 
Meredith,  who  made  Harry  Richmond's  Titanic 
father  and  the  Great  Mel. 

This  is  how  Daunt,  in  his  Ireland  and  Jwr 
Agitators,  describes  the  monarch :  "  Of  high 
Norman  lineage,  of  manners  elegant,  fascinating, 
]i()lished  by  extensive  intercourse  with  the  great 
world,  of  princely  income  and  of  boundless 
hospitality,  Mr.  15agenal  possessed  all  the  qualities 
and  attributes  calculated  to  procure  for  him  jiopu- 
larity  with  every  class.  A  terrestrial  paradise 
was  Dunlcckny  for  all  lovers  of  good  wine,  good 
horses  and  dogs,  and  good  society.  ...  His 
politics  were  })oj)ular  ;  he  was  the  mover  of  the 
grant  of  ;^50,()()0  to  Grattan  in  l7St2.  He  was 
at  that  time  member  for  the  county  Carlow. 

^'  Enthroned  at  Dunlcckny,  he  gathered  around 
liiin  a  host  of  spirits  congenial  to  his  own.  He 
had  a  tender  affection  for  pistols  ;  a  brace  of  which 
implements,  loaded,  were  often  laid  before  him 
on  the  dinner-table.  After  dinner  the  claret 
was  ))roduce(l  in  an  unbroachcd  cask  :  Hagcnal's 
30 


Advice  to  the  Young 

practice  [his  practice  !]  ^vas  to  tap  the  cask  with 
a  bullet  from  one  of  his  })istols,  whilst  he  kept 
the  other  pistol  in  terrorem  for  any  of  his  convives 
who  should  fail  in  doing  ample  justice  to  the 
wine. 

"  Nothing  could  be  more  impressive  than  the 
bland,  f\itherly,  affectionate  air  with  which  the 
old-gentleman  used  to  impart  to  his  junior  guests 
the  results  of  his  own  experience,  and  the  moral 
lessons  which  should  regulate  their  conduct 
through  life.  '  In  truth,  my  young  friends,  it 
behoves  a  youth  entering  the  world  to  make  a 
character  for  himself  Respect  Avill  only  be 
accorded  to  character.  A  young  man  must  show 
his  proofs.  1  am  not  a  quarrelsome  person — I 
never  was — I  hate  your  mere  duellist ;  but  ex- 
perience of  the  world  tells  me  that  there  are 
knotty  points  of  which  the  only  solution  is  the 
saw-handle.  Rest  upon  your  pistols,  my  boys ! 
Occasions  will  arise  in  which  the  use  of  them  is 
absolutely  indispensable  to  character.  A  man,  I 
repeat,  must  show  his  proofs — in  this  world 
courage  will  never  be  taken  upon  trust.  I  protest 
to  Heaven,  my  dear  young  friends,  that  1  advise 
you  exactly  as  I  should  advise  my  own  son.'  And 
having  thus  discharged  his  conscience,  he  would 
look  blandly  round  upon  his  guests  with  the  most 
patriarchal  air  imaginable." 
31 


Heaven  s  Will  is  Done 

"His  practice,"  says  Daunt,  "accorded  witli 
his  prece})t.  Some  pigs,  the  property  of  a  gentle- 
man who  had  recently  settled  near  Dunleckny, 
strayed  into  an  enclosure  of  King  Bagenal's,  and 
rooted  up  a  flower-knot."  The  incensed  monarch 
paved  the  way  carefully  to  a  challenge.  "  Nor 
was  he  disappointed.  The  challenge  was  given 
by  the  owner  of  the  pigs  ;  Bagenal  accepted  it 
with  alacrity,  only  stipulating  that  as  he  was  old 
and  feeble,  being  then  in  his  seventy-ninth  year, 
he  should  fight  sitting  in  his  arm-chair ;  and  that, 
as  his  infirmities  preventing  early  rising,  the 
meeting  should  take  place  in  the  afternoon. 
^Time  was,'  said  the  old  man  with  a  sigh,  'that  I 
would  have  risen  before  daybreak  to  fight  at 
sunrise  —  but  we  cannot  do  these  things  at 
seventy-eight.      Well,  Heaven's  will  be  done  I  ' 

^•'They  fought  at  twelve  paces.  Bagenal 
wounded  his  antagonist  severely  ;  the  arm  of  the 
chair  in  which  he  sat  was  shattered,  but  he 
escaped  unhurt ;  and  he  ended  the  day  with  a 
glorious  carouse,  ta})ping  the  claret,  we  may 
presume,  as  usual,  by  firing  a  pistol  at  the  cask." 

There  you  have  King  Bagenal.  This  was 
little  more  than  a  hundred  years  ago.  And  to- 
day .^  What  happens  to-day  when  j)igs  trespass  r 
An  exchange  of  shots  ?  Never.  An  exchange 
of  lawyers'  letters.  How  could  his  proud  si)irit 
32 


As  Tennyson  nearly   said 

have  brooked  such  meanness,  such  postponements  ! 
Yes,  it  was  well  that  he  had  to  lay  aside  his 
crown  when  he  did.  Life  was  rapidly  becoming 
too  much  for  him.  The  whole  course  of  events 
was  tending  to  squeeze  out  old  gentlemen  with 
impulsive  pistols  ;  to-day  there  cannot  be  one  left. 
It  is  impossible  to  think  of  anything  more  incon- 
gruous than  King  Bagenal  in  a  police-station ; 
but  had  he  lived  to  our  monotonous  time  he 
would  of  a  certainty  be  often  there,  only  at  last 
to  be  transferred  permanently  to  a  real  prison  to 
await  execution.  How  could  he  escape,  and  yet 
how"  monstrous  it  would  be  ! 

King  Bagenal  died  at  the  right  time  :  before 
duellists  became  murderers ;  before  Father 
Mathew  set  a  fashion  against  carousals ;  before 
every  editor  was  a  judge  and  jury.  There  is  no 
longer  any  premium  on  eccentricity.  People 
are  terrified  by  it,  and  journalists,  taking  their 
ideas  from  their  readers,  foster  the  fear.  Dull- 
heads,  as  Tennyson  nearly  said,  are  more  than 
''  characters,"  and  sheep-like  faith  than  Irish 
blood.  Exeunt  the  royal  race  of  Bagenals. 
Enter 

In  spite  of  generations  of  reckless,  combative 

Irish  gentlemen,  it  is  odd  that  we  have  still  to  go 

to  American  literature  for  the  classical  instances 

of  imjietuosity  with  firearms.     This  is  a  reproach 

c  33 


Thompson  of  Angel's 

to  Irisli  authors  wliich  should  touch  them  closely. 
Irish  gentlemen  were  killing  and  wounding  each 
other  on  sight  almost  for  centuries  before  America 
was  heard  of,  and  yet  it  was  left  for  Bret  Harte 
and  Mark  Twain  and  John  Hay  in  the  Far  West 
to  fix  the  type  of  fire-eater  that  carried  his 
lionour  in  his  belt.  Perhaps  a  line  or  two  from 
the  elegiacs  on  Thompson  of  Angel's  will  best 
describe  what  I  mean  : — 


"  Light  and  free  was    the    touch    of  Tliompson    upon   his 
revolver, 
Great  the  mortality  incident  on  that  lightness  and  freedom. 

Why  [Thompson  is  musing],  why  in  my  daily  walks  does 

the  surgeon  drop  his  left  eyelid, 
The  undertaker  smile,  and    the    sculptor   of  gravestones 

and  marble 
Lean  on  his  chisel  and  gaze  ?     I  care  not  o'er  much  for 

attention  : 
Simple  am   I  in  my  ways,  save  but  for  this  lightness  and 

freedom." 

Why  were  not  similar  elegiacs  written  years 
before  on  Bagenal  of  Dunlecknv?  What  is 
wrong  with  Irish  authors?  But  I  would  except 
Lever,  who,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  has  Bagenal 
himself  in  his  Kni<rht  of  (iin/nnc — or  the  scenario 
of  him— under  the  name  of  Bagenal  Dalv.  Vet 
how  far  from  life  ! 

To  read  of  Bai^enal  and   his  contcmpor; 
34 


The  Decay  of  Duelling 

to  be  filled  Avith  wonder  that  any  gentleman  was 
left  alive  in  Ireland  at  all.  It  was  a  state  of 
society  which  at  this  day  one  simply  cannot  begin 
to  understand.  There  are,  Heaven  knows,  still 
enough  ways  of  dying  ;  but  the  short-tempered 
and  accurate-shooting  Hibernian  is  no  longer  one 
of  them.  Whether  or  not  we  are  less  courageous  I 
do  not  know  ;  but  there  is  less  engaging  insolence 
about  than  there  used  to  be,  and  less  of  conscious 
superiority.  Jack  not  only  was  not  as  good  as 
his  master  in  King  Bagenal's  day,  but  he  never 
thought  he  was.  Similarly,  his  master  then  had 
no  doubts ;  but  to-day  very  few  of  us  are  quite 
certain  about  anything,  either  on  earth  or  else- 
where. Duelling  goes  out  very  quickly  when 
dubiety  comes  in.  The  duellist  is  one  who  is 
sure  of  himself  and  his  ground.  Mr.  Bagenal  had 
no  doubts. 

One  word  more  of  the  Carlow  King.  The 
traditions  of  Dunleckny  allege,  says  Daunt,  that 
when  Bagenal,  "  in  the  course  of  his  tour  through 
Europe,  visited  the  petty  Court  of  Mecklenburg- 
Strelitz,  the  Grand  Duke,  charmed  with  his  mag- 
nificence and  the  rej^utation  of  his  wealth,  made 
him  an  offer  of  the  hand  of  the  fair  Charlotte, 
who,  being  politely  rejected  by  King  Bagenal, 
was  afterwards  accepted  by  King  George  III." 
That  sets  the  seal  on  his  native  royalty.  The 
35 


Farewell   to   Bagenal 

King  of  Kiigland  had  to  marry  the  King  ot 
Carlow's  leavings.  It  was  well  for  our  satirical 
literature  that  Hagenal  was  firm,  for  where  would 
Peter  Pindar  have  been  had  Farmer  (ieorge  not 
married  the  Princess  Charlotte?  She  was  his 
best  Muse. 

And  so  we  leave  the  uncrowned  king  and  come 
to  the  gate-kee))er. 

All  tiiat  I  know  of  Edward  Edge  comes  from  a 
slender  square  book  printed  in  1899  in  Alassio. 
It  is  com])iled  by  H.  H.  W.,  and  is  entitled 
Edgiana  :  Jicing  a  Collect iuti  of  Sonic  of  the  Smjingx 
of  Kd ward  Edge.  Money  cannot  buy  this  book, 
which  is  as  rare  as  an  Elzevir,  and  much  more 
humanly  interesting. 

It  would  be  amusing  to  accumulate  conjectures 
as  to  who  and  what  this  1  xlward  Edge  was.  How 
long  would  it  be,  I  wonder,  before  anyone  guessed 
that  he  was  the  keeper  of  the  gate  at  St.  Patrick's 
Deanery  in  Dublin — Swift's  own  deanery,  but  in 
a  later  day,  18();)  until  the  late  eighties,  when  he 
was  pensioned  off,  to  die,  aged  about  eighty, 
in  18f)4-.  Tiiat  was  I'dward  ledge's  sphere  of 
activity,  and  iu-  adorned  it,  if  not  by  any  great 
distinction  as  a  jJorUr,  at  any  rate  with  his 
Howers  of  speech.  For  ledge's  niche  in  the 
Temple  of  Fame  he  owes  to  his  tongue — to  the 
n-.-idiiuss  and  freedom  of  it,  to  his  store  of  odd 


The  richest   Irish  Talkers 

epithets  and  sudden  searcliing  criticisms,  and 
perhaps  most  of  all  to  his  vivid,  although  innocent, 
oaths.  For  just,  as  the  French  say,  there  is  no 
need  for  a  sculptor  to  be  himself  made  of  marble, 
so  can  a  man  keep  a  deanery  gate  and  be  no 
dean.  Loyalty  and  fidelity  Edge  had  to  a  degree 
not  much,  if  any,  less  than  a  Christian  martyr  ; 
but  he  did  not  allow  the  contiguity  of  St. 
Patrick's  to  chasten  his  nimble  objurgatory  fancy 
or  modify  his  memories.  Glory  be !  And 
H.  H.  W.,  in  his  turn,  has  not  allowed  the  fear 
of  wounding  tender  susceptibilities  to  stand  in 
the  way  of  a  faithful  reproduction  of  the  old 
man's  eloquence.  You  can,  in  fact,  do  a  good 
deal  in  a  book  when  you  print  it  privately  at 
Alassio. 

The  two  richest  Irish  talkers  of  recent  times 
are,  I  suppose,  Terence  Mulvaney  and  Martin 
Dooley.  But  both  are  imaginary :  projections  of 
men  of  genius.  Edward  Edge  lived  ;  his  photo- 
graph is  before  me,  a  good  deal  like  Charles 
Kingsley.  Twenty  years  ago,  the  treasures  of  his 
vocabulary  and  the  riches  of  his  memory  were 
at  the  service  of  anyone  clever  enough  to  get 
round  him.  And  many  a  Dublin  resident  nuist 
remember  him  well.  To  draw  l^'dge  out,  to  lure 
him  on  to  obiter  dicta,  became,  indeed,  a 
recognised  pastime  among  the  Dean's  friends 
37 


Edge's  Genealogy 

\vh(»  wvw  limnorists,  and  it  is  eniiiientlv  one  of 
these  who  j)ut  tofrether  tliis  very  curious  aiul 
perliaps  uni(|ue  httle  book. 

Ed^e  came  from  Wickhnv^  Avhere  lie  was  born 
about  the  year  of  Waterloo,  and  where  he  spent 
tlie  first  fifty  years  of  his  life.  Here  is  his 
genealogy : — 

"  Misther  H.,  did  ye  ever  hear  tell  of  I'dgwaro 
Road,  in  or  about  the  city  o'  London  ?  Well,  th' 
Edges  owned  that,  and  bedambut  I'm  thinkin' 
the  weighty  part  o'  the  county  o'  Middlesex.  It 
was  Isaiah  V.d^rti  that  come  over  wid  William,  and 
was  at  the  siege  o'  Derry.  There's  some  o'  th' 
Edges  wouldn't  look  at  me  now.  There's  ould 
Ben  Edge,  a  cousin  o'  mine,  that  owns  all  the 
coal-mines  in  the  Queen's  County.  There's  a 
third  cousin  o'  mine — John  Edge — that's  Sittin' 
Justice  of  Inja.  The  Queen  come  up  to  him  in 
the  sthreet  in  London,  and  she  taps  him  on  the 
shouklher,  and  she  says,  MJegod  I'll  make  ye 
Sittin'  Justice  of  Inja,'  and  that's  wliat  he  is 
this  minute.  Now  I  might  be  dyin'  be  the 
roadside,  and  fire  the  bit  he'd  offer  furta  stan'  me 
the  j)rice  of  a  pint  I 

"  My  sixth  graii(lni(»llR'r  was  a  JiN\ganawt 
[Huguenot].  Eaith,  she  had  to  got  her  together 
all  her  ould  jwoks  an'  wallets  an'  away  wid  her 
out  (»'  the  city  o'  Paris  in  the  year  I'u'^.  My 
great-grand-mother  knew  Latin  an'  Hay-ber-doo 
I  Hebrew],  and  bedambut  she  had  the  weighty 
part  o'  the  (lurdeek  |(ireek|  toongue.      There's  an 

3^ 


Cardinal   Newman 

ould  sesther  o'  mine,  that's  a  terrible  savin' 
woman  ;  that  wan  id  live  on  the  clippins  o'  tin  ! 
Faith,  she'd  go  furder  on  a  ha'penny  nor  I  would 
on  two  shillin'  ! 

"Now  isn't  it  a  wondherful  thing  furta  say,  in 
the  reg^'ard  o'  the  breed  o'  th'  Edges,  that  no 
matther  some  o'  them  might  'a  become  poor  brutes 
and  divils,  there  was  never  wan  o'  the  breed  that 
turdned  Roman  !  " 

He  was  a  staunch  Protestant,  and  loved  to 
attend  controversial  meetings  at  which  Roman 
Catholics  were  corrected  and  repudiated.  That, 
says  his  biographer,  was  probably  all  the  religion 
he  knew — the  glow  of  satisfaction  upon  the  rout, 
real  or  imagined,  of  the  heretics.  His  hostility 
to  Rome  was  continual,  as,  indeed,  became  a  good 
"Dane's  Man."  Observe  him  before  a  portrait  of 
Cardinal  Newman  : — 

"  Sure,  what  the  blazes  does  Misther  John  have 
the  likes  of  him  on  the  wall  for  }  Heth  an'  if  I 
had  that  ould  fella's  picture,  I'd  fire  him  out  on 
the  sthreet,  and  bedambut  I'd  lep  on  him,  so  I 
would.  [Going  up  close  to  the  picture  and 
peering  into  it.]  Musha,  a  dam  ould  Roman  eye  ; 
that's  what  he  has  !  " 

But  he  could  be  fair,  too.      "  My  opinion,"  he 
said    once,  ^- it    don't    matter   Adam  what  bl — y 
denomination  a  man  id  belong  ta  !     Sure  there's 
rogues  Roman  an'  there's  rogues  Prodesan' !  " 
39 


Pronunciation's  Artful  Aid 

The  old  man  could  >vrite  and  read  with  much 
difficulty  ;  hence  probably  the  quaintncss  and 
personal  character  of  his  vocabulary,  which — 
like  a  child's — consisted  largely  of  words  as  he 
thou<Tht  he  heard  them.  Hence  ''  alcohol " 
became  "  alcordn  "  ;  "  Protestant/'  "  Prodesan  "  ; 
"  Admiral,"  "  Admirdle  "  ;  "  gh*l/'  "  g'yairdle  '  ; 
''foreigners/'  '*fawrdnei*s  "  ;  '^ colonel/'  "curdlan/' 
and  so  forth.  One  book  he  had  of  which 
he  never  tired.  Cii/pcpcr's  Jlcrhal  —  "  The 
Culpeper"  he  called  it — and  drew  all  his  remedies, 
save  a  few  into  which  a  modern  spirit  entered, 
from  its  depths. 

Himself  the  soul  of  honesty,  he  delighted 
artistically  in  bold  rogues,  whatever  their  de- 
nomination might  be ;  but  probably  preferred 
them,  when  bold,  to  be  'M^rodesan  "  —  such  as 
Frank  Splay,  the  window-cleaner : — 

"  Well,  ould  Splay  (the  Catholic  I  call  him,  an' 
he  all  the  time  a  good  Prodesan)  come  into  the 
lodge  th'  other  night,  about  the  time  he  was 
afther  takin'  Tord  Plunket's  pledge.  '  Well, 
Frank,'  says  I, '  how  didja  fare  yistherda'  ? '  '  Aw, 
very  well,'  says  he ;  M  was  clanin'  the  windas 
for  such  and  such  an  ould  wan.'  *  Tell  me,'  says 
I,  'and  did  she  give  ye  a  tundherin'  fine  dinner.'' ' 
*  Faitii,  she  did  ;  I  eat  may  be  .*>  lbs.  o"  beef — the 
dinner  was  out  o'  the  way  good.'  *  .\nd  did  she 
give  ye  ne'er  a  hap'orth  to  dhrink  r '      '  Hcgob  and 


"A  Terrible  Cute  Chap" 

she  did  so  ;  ^Mieth  an/'  says  she,  ^' me  poor  man,  I 
believe  your  dinner  isn't  complate  without  the 
dhrink  !  "  '  '  Begor  I  believe  not,  ma'am/  says  he. 
Well,  what  the  divil  should  he  do  but  he  takes 
and  dhrinks  two  or  three  pints  o'  Guinness's  finest. 
'  Aw,  gog's  bloog  an'  'ounds,'  says  I  to  him, '  y'ould 
thief  Frank,  but  yer  afther  breakin  Lord  Plunket's 
pledge  !  ' 

" '  Heth  an'  I  am  not,'  says  he  ;  '  sure  I  didn't 
paif  for  the  po-ert-ther ! ' 

"  Aw,  Frank's  a  great  ould  rogue  entirely  ! 

"  Well,  there  was  another  time  he  was  clanin' 
for  an  ould  lady  on  the  Sarc'lar  Road.  Mindja 
there  was  an  ould  cupboard  in  the  cordner  wid 
the  divil  a  less  nor  a  mather  o'  .3  lbs.  o'  beef  in  it. 
Well,  when  th'  ould  w^an  had  her  back  turdned 
an'  she  out  o'  the  room,  what  the  blazes  divilmcnt 
should  he  be  up  ta  but  he  goes  up  to  the  cupboard 
and  bl — y  end  to  the  thruppence  but  he  eat 
every  dambit  o'  the  beef  out  o'  that,  and  bad 
luck  fall  but  he  sticks  the  th'  ould  cat  locked  up 
inside  the  cupboard.  Presently  she  comes  down 
to  the  kitchen  an'  opens  the  press. 

" '  Aw,  gog's  bloog  an'  fury,'  says  she,  '  the 
cat's  afther  atin'  all  me  beef  on  me  1  had  for  yer 
dinner.  Fm  sorry,  me  poor  man,  Fve  nothin' 
furta  give  ye  fate ! '  '  Faith,  so  am  I,  ma'am,' 
says  he,  '  more's  the  pity ! ' — an'  he  wid  the  o  lbs. 
o'  beef  in  his  ould  body  all  the  time,  the  great 
ould  thief.  Faith,  Frank's  a  terrible  cute  chap 
entirely  in  the  regyard  of  all  soorts  o'  divilment !  " 

I  (juote  a  few  of  his  detached  sayings  or  pcnsces. 
41 


Various  Obiter  Dicta 

Of  the  waves  at  Neweastle  : — 

''  Aw  I  the  waves  uj)  here  (h)es  be  notliin'  to- 
wardst  wliat  there  was  below  in  Newcastle  comin' 
u})  to  forty  or  fifty  year  a^o.  Tliere'd  be  waves 
tliere,  and  l)l()o^-  an'  't)inids  tliere'd  be  room  for 
a  whole  regiment  to  march  in  undher  the  curdle 
o'  the  wave  wid  th'  arch  it  did  make." 

Of  ablutions  and  shaving: — 

"  Sathurda'  nights  or  Sunda*  morn'ns  is  times 
enough  for  a  man  to  wash  his  hands!  sure  a  man 
that  id  wash  his  hands  more  nor  that,  id  have  no 
mdusthnj  !  "  [?  Any  etymological  connection  in  his 
mind  with  "  Dust"  ?] 

^' It's  of  a  Sathurda'  night  I'd  always  tear  the 
heavy  scoom  off  o'  me  puss  wid  th'  ould  razor." 

Of  a  cure  for  a  cold  : — 

"  If  it  was  a  thing  ye  had  a  heavy  surfeit  o' 
cowld,  faith  there's  nothing  betther  ye  could  do 
only  take  an'  ate  a  rale  terrible  ould  salty  book 
buck  herring!]  that  id  give  ye  the  divil's 
drought,  i.e.  tliirst],  an'  then  nothin'  id 
sadisfy  ye  but  ye  sliuiild  swally  two  or  three 
bookets  o'  cowld  spring  wather,  an'  agin  yid  be 
in  bed,  be  the  tundherin'  Mack,  the  lather  o' 
j)esperation  yid  be  in  id  swcc})  the  cowld  to  blazes 
out  o'  your  body !  " 

Concerning  homoopathy  : — 

"  Aw  sure  I  know  all  about  the  IIome-j)otticks  ; 
sure  it  was  a  woman  in   the  city  o'  I'aris  that  in- 

4^ 


haird'n  [1 
drooth  [( 


Three  Proud  Boasts 

vented  it.     Little  seeds  and  ground  airubs  [herbs] 
— that's  the  way  the'  goes  to  work !  " 

Of  one  who  had  been  dismissed  for  drinking  : — 

"Well  now,  it's  a  quare  thing  furta  say  ould 
XYZ  should  'a  been  put  out  of  it  for  the  dhrink, 
an'  he  as  daycent  a  man  as  ever  carried  a  shillin'  ! 
Heth  an'  1  always  thought  he  was  a  man  that 
could  hoidd  a  sup  ivithout  Icttin    in  /" 

Of  a  sportsman  : — 

"  One  o'  the  brothers  was  a  docthor ;  th'  other 
foUied  shootin' — he'd  be  always  shootin' — an' 
gog's  great  tare  an  'ounds  but  he  was  a  gra?id 
shot !  All  nations  id  be  comin  furta  shoot  agin 
him,  but  the'  might  as  well  'a  stopped  at  home. 
Aw,  there's  nothin'  that  flies  —  nothin'  undher 
the  stars — but  he'd  hit," 

And  here  are  three  of  his  proud  boasts  : — 

"  There's  not  a  man  in  all  Ireland,  put  England 
to  it  that  same,  that  id  be  able  furta  hould  a 
candle  to  me  in  the  matther  o'  puttin'  down 
doong  ! 

"  There's  not  a  man  in  Ireland  that  id  be  able 
to  read  the  names  over  the  shop-doors  agin  me  ! 

"Misther  H.,  I  might  be  blind  dhroonk,  and 
dammyskin  I'd  be  safer  in  the  regyard  o'  lockin' 
and  boultn'  th'  ould  gate  nor  another  man  id  be 
an'  he  black  sober  !  " 

Let  me  close  with  H.   H.  W.'s  description  of 
43 


His  Sunday  Glory 

tliis   siiiij)lc'   profane  old    man    in  all   the  glory   of 
authority  on  a  Sunday  afternoon  : — 

"  Punctually  at  4..S0  he  would  take  his  stand 
just  outside  the  door,  on  the  pavement,  leaving 
the  door  ajar,  to  wait  for  tiie  Dean's  coming 
in  from  the  Cathedral.  Kdge  would  often  have 
more  than  half  an  hour  to  wait  before  the  Dean 
a])j)eared,  hut  these  were  ])erhaps  the  ]M-oudest 
moments  of  the  week  for  him,  for  in  the  mean- 
time the  de])arting  congregation,  including  the 
clilc  of  Dublin  residents  and  visitors,  some 
driving,  some  on  foot,  would  have  filed  by  ;  and 
as  he  stood  there,  cndimcnichc  with  clean  collar 
and  the  best  ^rig'  he  could  muster,  in  full  view 
of  all  ^the  Quality'  did  they  but  turn  their  heads 
to  see  him,  he  experienced  to  the  full  a  dignified 
consciousness  of  being  ^the  Dane's  i)ort-ther,'  and 
moreover  of  executing  that  function  'betther  nor 
any  man  in  Ireland.'  " 

Kdward  Edges  there  must  always  be — trans- 
jiarent,  humorous  souls  who  do  their  duty  and 
worship  their  masters — but  with  the  spread  of 
education  and  j)aj)ers  their  speech  is  bound  to 
bect)me  less  individual  and  racv.  The  more 
])raise,  then,  to  11.  II.  \V.  for  ])reserving  for  us 
these  jewels  that  fell  from  tlu-  old  gate-keeper's 
lips. 


From  Persia  to  Aberdeen       <:>        ^        ^ 

TT  is  my  misfortune  to  be  just  too  late  for  most 
of  the  more  dramatic  incidents  of  the  open 
air.  Once^  for  example,  walking  with  a  naturalist 
in  St.  Leonard's  Forest  and  lagging  for  some 
minutes  behind  him  (the  only  time  I  had  done  so 
during  the  day),  I  joined  him  just  as  he  was 
standing  as  still  as  a  stone  watching  a  bank.  ''  Jf 
you  had  come  a  minute  sooner/'  he  said,  "  you 
would  have  seen  a  snake  swallow  her  young." 
That  is  the  kind  of  thing  that  happens  to  me. 

Again,  last  year,  I  went  to  stay  in  a  house 
under  the  South  Downs  close  to  a  little  spinney, 
and  was  met  by  the  news  that  an  old  vixen  had 
cubs  there  and  everyone  had  seen  them  playing 
together.  I  need  hardly  say  that  I  did  not.  Yet 
a  lady  that  I  know  well,  who  cares  nothing  for 
these  things,  once  came  on  a  small  fox-cub  that 
had  lost  itself  near  Willingdon,  in  ^Sussex,  and 
nursed  it  in  her  arms.  I,  who  would  value  such 
45 


A  Cat  carrying   Kittens 

an  experience  rii;htly,  will  ^o  down  to  my  grave 
and  never  find  anything.      Kven  moles  elude  me. 

With  the  exciting  untoward  incidents  of 
civilised  life  I  am  equally  unlucky.  Last  year, 
for  example^  while  at  Cowes,  on  two  distinct  days 
I  followed  a  race  for  some  hours,  and  left  each,  as 
it  turned  out  afterwards,  only  a  minute  or  so 
before  the  mast  of  one  of  the  yachts  was  carried 
away.  I  am  not  lucky.  The  liarvest  of  my  quiet 
eye  comprises  little  that  is  unusual.  Horses  have 
always  risen  again  before  I  can  reach  the  crowd. 
Fires  are  always  out.     Men  in  fits  have  recovered. 

But  there  is  an  excei)ti()n  now  and  then  ;  and 
I  have  seen  a  pretty  thing  to-day  of  which  I  had 
before  only  heard  and  had  much  wanted  to  see. 
I  have  seen  a  cat  carrying  her  kittens. 

This  cat  is  even  more  unsatisfactory  than  the 
generality  of  her  selfish  kind.  Her  life  is  more 
resolutely  detached  from  that  of  her  owners;  her 
return  for  any  kindness  that  is  shown  her  is  even 
less  spontaneous  and  noticeable.  It  is  testimony 
to  the  amazing  cleverness  of  cats  that  they  are 
kept  and  fed  at  all,  to  say  nothing  of  being  petted. 
It  all  comes  back  to  the  old  truth  that  if  you 
want  people  to  honour  you,  you  must  (K's})ise 
them. 

This  cat  began  her  career  of  tyranny  by  making 
us  walk  five  miles  instead  of  two  at  tlu-  end  o(  a 
46 


Expense  continuous 

tiring  day ;  but  a  houseful  of  beautiful  wild 
creatures^  blue  and  elusive  as  wood  smoke,  was 
compensation  enough.  Melisande  (as  we  will 
call  her  here)  was  one  of  them,  and  her  second  act 
of  tyranny  was  to  make  us  pay  far  too  much  for 
her,  or,  at  any  rate,  more  than  I  could  afford. 
Her  third  was  to  catch  an  expensive  cold,  her 
fourth  to  have  an  expensive  consort,  and  her  fifth 
to  have  four  expensive  and  delicate  children. 
What  their  delicacy  cost  I  have  no  notion,  but 
there  is  a  firm  of  veterinary  surgeons  whose 
books  could  tell. 

For  these  kittens,  I  may  remark,  Melisande 
cared  nothing,  and  it  is  no  exaggeration  to  say 
that  her  first  display  of  anything  like  affection  for 
her  mistress  coincided  with  the  departure  of  the 
last  of  her  family,  bound  for  a  neighbouring 
chemist,  who  puts  an  end  to  unfortunate  animals 
at  a  shilling  a  head.  Nothing  in  life,  indeed,  so 
became  these  kittens  as  their  departure  from  it, 
for  none  of  their  medicaments  to  keep  them  alive 
had  cost  so  little  as  this  extremely  reasonable 
cuftp-dc-grdcc. 

We  were  soon  to  discover,  however,  that 
Melisande's  callous  treatment  of  her  first  children 
resulted  less  from  the  want  of  maternal  feeling  than 
from  a  deep-rooted  and  almost  passionate  Radical- 
ism that  led  her  to  desire  by  any  means  to  debase 
47 


Blue  Persian   Philosophy 

her  blood  aiitl  to  despise  everytliiiifj^  that  was  of 
equally  high  lineage.  For  her  long  pedigree 
now  reposing  in  my  desk  (which  goes  back  even 
to  Darius)  she  cared  less  than  nothing.  She 
believed  in  the  })eo})le  and  was  prepared  to  back 
her  belief — even  to  consorting  day  and  niglit 
with  a  perfectly  awful  sandy  cat  with  a  permanent 
black  smudge  on  his  left  cheek.  And  now  she  has 
three  new  kittens — one  jet  black,  one  rather  like 
herself  but  sadly  democratised,  and  one  tai)by — 
and  she  loves  them  to  distraction.  It  was  these 
that  I  met  her  carrying,  having  decided  to  change 
her  home  from  the  wood  stack  to  some  more 
convenient  address,  nearer  the  kitchen. 

On  the  strength  of  our  experience  with 
Melisande,  my  advice  would  be — not  to  buy  a 
pure-bred  cat  of  great  distinction.  I  am  j)erhaps 
underrating  the  aesthetic  j)leasure  which  a  Blue 
Persian  can  give.  This  I  know  can  be  intense, 
and  there  are  moments  when  Melisande  is  dis- 
tractingly  lovely — as  lovely  as  a  pearl-grey  sea,  or 
an  evening  mist.  Her  eyes,  too,  are  of  a  burning 
orange  unlike  anything  else  in  Nature.  Hut 
although  she  is  sujierlatively  distinguished  in  her 
beauty,  it  nuist  be  remembered  that  there  never 
was  a  cat  that  could  do  anything  ugly.  ICven 
that  vile  sandy  cat  with  the  smudge  to  wlioni 
•Melisande  gave  her  heart  has  the  most  exquisite 
48 


The  best  Cat  I   k 


now 


contours.  The  curves  and  graces  of  the  ordinary 
household  cat  are  perhaps  for  all  practical 
purposes  beauty  enough  for  a  working  English 
home ;  and  when  to  these  is  allied  a  dependent, 
or  even  proprietary,  interest  in  the  human 
members  of  the  family — a  dallying  to  be 
scratched,  a  purring  on  the  hearth,  and  a  coaxing 
presence  at  meals  in  the  hope  of  a  scrap — why, 
then,  to  anyone  who  values  friendliness  as  I  do, 
the  ordinary  cat  becomes  more  to  be  desired  than 
any  prize-winning  queen. 

The  best  cat  I  know  at  this  moment  lives 
in  Northamptonshire,  and  follows  its  master  and 
mistress  wherever  they  go,  about  the  garden  and 
fields — ^_]ast  like  a  dog,  only  with  more  circum- 
spection. Whenever  they  stop  the  cat  stops  too, 
and  perhaps  leans  against  their  legs.  When  they 
go  on  the  cat  goes  on  too,  just  behind,  silently, 
comjiosedly,  like  a  shadow  with  a  waving  tail.  I 
should  like  a  cat  that  would  do  that.  Instead,  we 
have  the  costly  Melisande,  who  would  not  lift  a 
finger  if  she  saw  me  drowning-. 

I  am  only  just  beginning  really  to  understand 
the  nature  of  the  Aberdeen.  Our  last  was  a  very 
ingratiating  little  bitch,  full  of  affection  and 
roguishness,  who,  however,  was  with  us  for  so 
short  a  time,  and  during  that  time  was  so  occu])ied 
in  thoughts  as  to  how  to  evade  our  vigilance  and 
D  49 


The  Call  of  Nature 

be  getting  on  with  the  true  business  of  life, 
becoming  ;i  mother — that  we  never  had  the  un- 
dress material  workings  of  her  mind  at  all.  Even 
when  most  coquettish  and  endearing,  even  when 
putting  in  motion  all  the  machinery  of  lovable- 
ness,  with  her  head  on  one's  chest  and  the 
ridiculous  boot  buttons  which  she  called  her  eyes 
looking  uj)  into  one's  face,  her  brain,  to  a  keen 
observer,  was  manifestly  busy  over  one  matter 
only,  and  that  the  old  toi)ic. 

Precautions  we  had  to  take,  because  there  were 
two  very  sound  reasons  why  l^etty  ought  not  to 
have  pujipies  yet.  One  was  that  she  was  far  too 
young,  being  herself  but  a  mere  chit ;  and  the 
other  that  the  neighbourhood  contained  no 
husband  of  ec^ual  birth.  But  one  might  as  well 
attempt  to  stop  the  tide  as  control  these  affairs. 
A  male  Aberdeen  mysteriously  appeared  within 
call,  and  Betty's  face  assumed  an  expression  of 
amused  satisfaction.  .   .   . 

Her  owners,  however,  who  became  wise  only 
long  after  the  event,  had  no  suspicion.   .   .   . 

One  day  she  disappeared,  and  was  absent  for 
so  long — nearly  a  week — that  we  gave  her  up 
completely.  And  then  one  evening  she  suddenly 
was  in  the  room  again,  very  thin,  very  demonstra- 
tive, but  also  very  nervous  and  restless.  She  ran  to 
the  door  and  back  again.  She  whined  all  the  time. 
5° 


A  Lesson  Learnt 

There  is  a  story  in  n  book  that  I  read  far  too 
many  years  ago,  when  I  was  at  my  first  school, 
which  tells  how  a  merchant  who  was  travelling 
with  a  large  bag  of  money  sat  clown  by  the  road- 
side to  rest,  and  on  resuming  his  journey  forgot 
(as  merchants  do  in  stories,  but  nowhere  else)  his 
property.  His  dog,  however,  perceived  the  error, 
and,  by  jumping  up  at  him  and  barking,  did  its 
best  to  impede  his  steps,  make  him  think,  and 
drive  him  back.  The  merchant  endured  this  for 
some  time,  and  then,  persuaded  that  the  creature 
was  mad,  and  having  tested  it  with  water,  which 
it  was  too  unhappy  to  stop  and  drink,  drew  his 
pistol  and  shot  it.  The  poor  thing,  bleeding 
horribly,  crawled  away  and  disappeared.  Some 
hours  afterwards  the  merchant  at  last  missed  his 
bag,  hurriedly  retraced  his  steps  to  his  resting- 
place,  and  there  found  it  safe  and  sound — with 
his  dog's  lifeless  body  stretched  across  it.  True 
or  untrue,  this  story  made  a  great  impression  on 
me,  and  I  remember  determining  never  to  be  so 
foolish  as  to  disregard,  in  the  unimaginative 
mercantile  manner,  the  dumb  gestures  of  any 
animal ;  and  therefore,  when  Betty  had  run  to 
the  door  and  back  several  times,  I  lit  a  lantern, 
tied  a  long  string  to  her  collar,  and  exi)ressed  my 
intention  of  going  with  her  wherever  she  might 
lead,  no  matter  how  far. 
51 


Betty's  Secret 

She  took  nie  i)ainfiilly  at  my  word,  dra<r^in2j 
me  at  a  gallop  down  an  almost  vertical  bank, 
thick  Avith  brambles  and  very  wet  with  dew.  On 
and  on  I  went,  slii)ping  and  sliding  and  torn, 
until  she  suddenly  disap})eared  as  thoroughly  as 
if  the  eartii  had  swallowed  her.  As  it  indeed 
had,  for  she  had  entered  a  large  deej)  hole  under 
the  roots  of  a  tree.  With  great  difliculty  I  hauled 
her  forth  again  and  stretched  my  arm  into  the 
hole  as  far  as  it  would  go,  but  could  feel  nothing. 
Meanwhile  Betty  was  so  pulling  at  the  cord  and 
fighting  to  get  back  again  that  I  allowed  her  to 
do  so,  listening  the  while  very  attentively,  and  I 
was  presently  aware  in  the  remoter  recesses  of 
this  planet  of  a  faint  wdiimpering,  and  knew  the 
secret  of  her  absence  and  her  retreat.  She  had 
pujipies,  and  in  her  pride  of  motherhood  liad 
chosen  to  make  -her  own  liome  for  them.  No  one 
should  help.  It  was  only  because  hunger  had 
conquered  that  she  had  returned  to  the  house. 

Her  pride,  however,  was  not  stubborn,  and 
when  the  puppies  were  extricated  with  a  rake 
and  placed  comfortably  in  a  basket  mar  the  fire, 
she  was  the  hapj)iest  mother  that  tlie  (iranile 
Citv  ever  sent  forth. 

With    Hettv  my  ae(juainlanee   with    Aberdeens 
for  a  while  ceased,  for  she   soon  after  lett  us,  and 
her  one  pn|)py  that  we   ke])t  early  develoj)ed  fits 
5-^ 


The  Thin  End  of  the  Wedge 

and  died — the  effect,  I  imagine,  of  his  mother's 
maternal  precocity.  But  recently  I  have  taken 
up  my  studies  in  Aberdeen  terrierdom  again, 
having  acquired  direct  from  Aberdeen  one  Boby, 
who  is,  I  am  told,  a  fine  example  of  the  breed. 
He  travelled  alone  at  the  age  of  four  months 
from  Scotland  to  St.  Pancras,  and  was  to  be 
fetched  in  the  forenoon.  It  was,  however,  later 
before  that  could  be,  and  in  the  meantime  he 
had  thrown  the  Aberdeen  spell  over  most  of  the 
parcels'  office  staff",  and  was  surrounded  by  the 
luxuries  of  the  season.  I  doubt  if  any  other  dog 
could  do  this  as  an  Aberdeen  can.  It  is  a  regular 
habit  with  them  to  have  all  they  want.  I  have 
a  theory  that  this  is  partly  because  they  are  so 
like  little  pigs.  Everyone  adores  little  pigs,  and 
everyone  would  like  to  pet  one  ;  but  nobody  has 
ever  done  so.  In  default  the  Aberdeen  puppy, 
who  is  the  next  thing  to  a  little  i)ig,  receives  a 
double  share  of  attention — part  for  his  likeness 
for  that  other  and  part  for  himself.  His  nose, 
too,  must  have  a  share  in  his  victories.  It  is  the 
thin  end  of  the  wedge  made  visible.  Tlie  rest 
cannot  but  follow. 

I  don't  know  how  it  is  with  Aberdeens  whom 

time    has   sobered   into   grisly  fidelity,  such  as  I 

see    following    their    masters    as    dinghys    follow 

yachts  ;  but  at  the  age  of  six  months,  judging  by 

53 


Aberdeen  and  Spaniel 

tliis  l}()])y,  lliey  are  not  readily  obedient,  not 
brave,  and  not  unselfishly  aflVctionate.  Sueh  love 
as  JJoby  offers  is  cu})l)<)ard  love  purely.  He  adds 
to  these  defects  a  curious  lack  of  enterprise  :  he 
cares  nothing  for  a  walk.  If  by  any  chance  it 
is  necessary  to  chastise  him  or  even  reprimand 
him  when  he  is  out — principally  for  eating  un- 
suitable things — he  runs  straight  home  again, 
and,  carrying  his  wounded  heart  into  the  kitchen 
(where  he  reigns),  is  healed  in  the  usual  manner. 
It  is  my  experience  that  dogs  do  not  vary  much  : 
each  is  a  type  of  his  breed  ;  and  so  I  make  bold 
to  deduce  from  Boby  the  generalisation  that  all 
Aberdeens  are  self-protective.  Perhaj)s  they  get 
it  from  their  country. 

In  a  dog  self-protectiveness  is  rather  a  grave 
defect,  showing  very  black  against  the  radiant 
whiteness  of  the  character  of  the  other  dog  here 
— a  spaniel — who  does  all  that  one  wants  a  dog 
to  do :  is  very  loyal,  full  of  trust  in  you,  brave, 
enterprising,  and  so  much  attaclu-d  to  his  people 
that  j)robably  no  amount  even  of  actual  cruelty 
would  alienate  him  or  cause  him  to  prefer  his 
own  company.  Indeed,  he  hates  his  own 
company ;  and  that,  I  take  it,  is  a  virtue  in  a 
dog.  But  he  lias  no  finesse,  no  moods,  no  arts, 
"^"ou  must  take  a  spaniel  for  what  he  is — always 
the  same.  It  is  the  special  privilege  of  the 
54 


The  Art  of  Begging 

Aberdeen  puppy  to  have  temperament  and  wiles  : 
to  get  back  by  stealth,  by  cleverness,  by  sheer 
force  of  personality  and  a  capriciousness  as  well 
ordered  as  that  of  any  pretty  actress,  all  and  more 
that  he  may  be  in  danger  of  losing  by  defects  of 
character.  For  his  hours  of  coldness  he  atones 
by  a  few  minutes  of  exquisite  dependence  ;  for 
his  long  fickleness — giving  all  his  store  to  a  total 
stranger  and  keeping  ten  yards  between  himself 
and  his  own — he  makes  up  by  falling  at  the  right 
moment  prone  at  one's  feet  with  his  paws  in  the 
air,  constituting  an  invitation  to  scratch  and  for- 
get that  no  ordinarily  constituted  human  being 
can  resist. 

But  probably  the  biggest  gun  in  the  deadly 
armoury  of  the  Aberdeen  is  the  art  of  begging. 
Begging  is  almost  a  birthright  with  an  Aberdeen. 
It  is  as  natural  to  him  as  to  a  hospital ;  and  he 
knows  its  power.  He  knows  that  masters  and 
mistresses  are  snobs,  and  like  to  be  begged  to : 
that  it  is  one  of  our  foibles.  This  he  knows,  and 
gains  immensely  by  it.  While  other  dogs  are 
fussily  striving  to  attract  attention  at  the  table, 
and  being  told  to  lie  down,  the  Aberdeen  is 
seated  quietly  at  the  side  of  the  weakest  guest, 
being  plied  with  delicacies  and  consuming  them 
without  a  sound.  The  quietest  Aberdeen  that  I 
ever  met  was  at  the  Dorset  Arms  at  East 
55 


Vertical  and  Unashamed 

Grinste«ad,  a  pleasant  hostelry,  with  Dr.  Johnson's 
chair  from  the  Essex  Head,  and  signed  photo- 
graphs of  Dan  Leno,  and  miles  of  Ashdown  Forest 
from  the  coffee-room  window.  An  aged  Aberdeen 
lives,  or  lived,  there,  who  will  sit  motionless  by 
your  chair  for  hours  if  need  be,  with  a  look  of  re- 
signed, almost  pious,  patience  on  his  countenance. 
You  never  see  him  come  in  or  go  out.  When  you 
sit  down  he  is  not  there ;  but  suddenly  he  is,  as 
still  as  a  ghost,  and  to  all  aj)pearances  as  solidly 
fixed  in  his  vertical  position  as  the  Nels(m  Column. 
Our  little  Boby  is  learning  the  same  device. 
No  one  taught  him  ;  but  one  day,  the  time  having 
arrived,  instead  of  lying  down  as  heretofore,  he 
subsided  naturally  on  his  tail,  lifted  his  fore-paws, 
and  was  begging.  Straightway  we  passed  utterly 
into  his  power,  and  he  perceived  it,  and  now  in 
extreme  cases  he  begs  even  Avhere  there  is  no 
meal  in  })rogress.  For  mercy,  the  superficial 
observer  might  think ;  but  that  is  not  so :  no 
Aberdeen  would  beg  for  mercy,  being  in  a  position 
to  command  it.  He  begs  by  instinct — as  the 
simplest  way  out  of  his  difficulty;  and  it  is  so. 
Begging  is  merely  one  of  the  thousand  and  one 
wiles  of  this  fascinating,  naughty,  incorrigible, 
and  wholly  adorable  breed. 


56 


The  Search  and  the  Gift        ^        ^       <^ 

'T^HE  other  day  I  lent  a  lady  Gaboriau's 
^  Dossier  113,  which  she  returned  with  the 
remark  that  she  liked  the  ingenuity  of  it  but 
wished  there  was  not  so  much  crime.  Without 
quite  subscribing  to  this  criticism,  I  think  there  is 
a  good  deal  in  it — for  gentle  ladies— and  Mhile 
meditating  thereon,  it  occurred  to  me  that  there 
is  an  excellent  opening,  as  the  advertisements 
say,  for  a  writer  who  will  apply  the  principles  of 
the  detective  story  to  blameless  affairs — that  is 
to  say,  retaining  the  detective  but  eliminating 
the  bloodstains  and  the  dark  passions  of  Mont- 
martre. 

For,  after  all,  the  fascinating  part  of  a  detective 
story  is  not  the  murder  or  the  theft,  but  the 
methods  of  the  detective  ;  not  the  poetical  justice 
at  the  close,  but  the  steps  by  which  it  has  been 
reached.  In  a  word,  the  fascinating  thing  about 
a  detective  story  is  the  search. 
57 


The  Great  Seekers 

The  search  is  one  of  tlie  oldest  motives  in 
literature,  and  it  remains  one  of  the  strongest — 
the  searcli  either  for  an  object  or  an  idea — for  a 
golden  fleece,  like  Jason's,  or  a  father,  like  Tele- 
machus'  ;  for  definite  hidden  treasures,  like  John 
Silver's,  or  adventures  that  may  come,  like  Don 
Quixote's  or  Lavengro's  ;  for  a  criminal,  like 
Lecoq's  or  Sherlock  Holmes's,  or  a  religion,  like 
Lothair's  ;  for  a  wife,  like  Ccelebs',  or  for  position, 
like  Kvan  Harrington's.  These  are  very  different 
examples,  but  the  search  motive  is  their  basis, 
and  it  is  the  basis  of  half  the  fairy  stories. 

I  am  striking  into  too  high  a  road.  My  original 
idea  was  that  there  should  be  a  new  novel  of  con- 
crete search,  retaining  the  detective  and  all  his 
ingratiating  methods,  but  retaining  them  only  for 
the  absorbing  interest  of  intjuiry — that  alluring 
quality  which  one  might  call  sleuthiness  ;  and  not 
that  the  cell  or  the  gallows  should  claim  their 
own.  Quite  the  reverse,  indeed  ;  for  whereas  in 
the  ordinary  detective  story  a  man  is  j)ursucd  in 
order  to  be  punished,  in  the  new  detective  story 
he  might  be  tracked  in  order  to  be  rewarded. 
No  matter  why  the  detective  was  engaged — 
whether  at  the  whim  of  an  eccentric  or  by  a  firm 
of  lawyers  to  find  an  heir — his  methods  need  not 
differ.  All  his  gifts  of  deduction,  his  disguises, 
his  resource,  his  godlike  o])portunism,  that  we 
5S 


Harlot  Pickin's  Sampler 

find  so  irresistible,  might  be  retained;  but  his 
revolver  and  handcuffs — those,  I  fear,  would  go. 
Their  absence  would  not,  however,  impair  the 
search — and  the  search  is  the  thing. 

But  my  scheme  would  do  more  than  merely 
satisfy  the  reader's  craving  for  excitement.  It 
would  automatically  bring  back  the  novel  of 
character,  the  novel  of  adventure  on  the  road 
among  men  and  women  of  to-day  —  the  real 
romance.  Let  us  take  an  example  to  illustrate 
what  I  mean  ;  and  it  happens  that  the  very  lady 
who  made  the  criticism  which  started  me  on  these 
meditations  supplies  what  I  want.  With  the 
returned  copy  of  Gaboriau's  story  came  a  present 
of  an  old  sampler — very  restful  to  look  upon,  with 
its  faded  silks  all  sobered  by  time  into  soft  neutral 
tints,  and  a  primitive  representation  of  the  Tree 
of  Knowledge  flanked  by  our  first  parents,  the 
serpent  intervening.  Above  are  these  verses, 
spelt  in  a  pre-Rooseveltean  day  : — 

"Jesvis,  permit  thy  grarachious  name  to  stand 
As  the  first  elTots  of  my  youthful  hand, 
And  as  my  little  fingers  over  the  canvas  move, 
Engage  my  tender  heart  to  seak  thy  love. 
With  thy  dear  children  have  a  part, 
And  wright  my  name  myself  upon  Jesusis  heart." 

At  the  foot  is  written — 

"  Hariot  Pickin  worked  this  sampler  June  2,  aged  13,  1S2S." 
59 


Instructions  to  a  Detective 

Now,  what  could  be  a  better  task  to  set  a 
detective  than  to  find  Hariot  Pickin  or  her 
descendants?  She  was  thirteen  in  June  ISiiS: 
that  is  to  savj  if  ahve  to-day  she  is  an  old  lady  of 
ninety-two.  Did  she  marry  ?  If  so,  her  name 
probably  ceased  to  be  Pickin.  Xo  doubt  the 
tracking  of  Hariot  would  not  take  very  long ;  but 
several  things  about  it  are  certain.  One  is  that 
the  modus  operandi  of  the  discoverer  would  be 
interesting,  and  the  other  is  that  his  inquiries 
would  of  necessity  take  him  among  many  persons, 
and  would,  faithfully  recorded,  make  excellent 
reading.  I  often  find  myself  ])ining  a  good  deal 
for  the  old-fashioned  kind  of  novel  in  which  there 
are  long  journeys,  and  in  which  new  characters 
are  continually  aj)pearing.  The  search  for  Hariot 
Pickin,  in  capable  hands,  should  yield  much  satis- 
faction of  this  kind. 

Another  example.  I  turn  to  my  shelves  and  take 
down  an  old  book.  It  is  Bunyan's  llolii  Jl'ar,  in 
calf,  much  stained  and  battered.  On  the  Hy-leaf, 
in  a  very  faint  ink,  is  written  '•  David  Sandeman"  ; 
on  the  top  of  the  introduction,  also  in  very  faint 
ink,  '•  Win.  Bathgate."  "  Bring  me,"  suppose  I 
were  to  say  to  the  detective,  "as  soon  as  you  can, 
full  particulars  of  this  David  Sandeman  and  this 
William  Bathgate."  Would  it  not  be  an  interest- 
ing task  ?  Would  not  the  n-eord  of  his  ndventures 
oo 


The   Rieht   Kind  of  Reader 


t> 


be  full  of  hiinian  nature  ?     Probably  there  have 
been    so    many  David    Sandemans    and    William 
Bathgates  that  he  could  not  do  it ;  but  it  serves 
as  an  example^  and  in  this  kind  of  story  failure  is 
of  little  importance,  since  the  real  thing  is   the 
peoi)le  by  the  way.     Anything  that  can  multiply 
good  novels  of  people  by  the  way  is  to  be  desired. 
But   I    have   still   a   third   example.     When    I 
reached    my    modest    home    the    other    evening, 
I  found  a  parcel  and  a   letter.     The  letter  had 
neither    beginning    nor    end,    nor    had    it    any 
address  ;  it  merely  said,  in  a  firm    and  generous 
hand,    that    the    writer,    having    gathered    from 
certain    printed    words  of  mine  that  I    like    the 
good  things  of  the  earth  (when  I  can  get  them  !), 
and  having  also  a  feeling  that  the  pleasure  that 
she    had    drawn    from    these    and    other    printed 
words  of  mine  ought  to  be  repaid    a  little,  was 
leaving  at  my  door  two  packets  of  caravan-borne 
tea    which   had    come   to    her    from    Russia,    and 
which  she  liked  to  think  her  friends  were  drink- 
ing— she  herself,  she  added,  adhering  the  while 
to  her  customary  half-crown  blend. 

Now,  here  was  a  pretty  thought  and  a  pretty 
deed  !  Of  caravan-borne  tea  I  had  often  heard, 
but  had  never  drunk  any,  much  less  owned  it. 
And  of  gratitude  I  had  often  occasionally  heard 
whisperings,  but  not  much  of  that  does  one  meet 
6i 


"  If  this  should  meet  the  Eye  .    .  ." 

>vith  either.  Vet  here  were  both  together!  Well, 
I  drank  the  tea,  and  it  was  ex(juisite  ;  ])ut  the 
trouble — the  little  droj)  of"  bitter  in  the  teacup — 
was  how  was  I  to  say  "  thank  you  "  for  it.  I 
suppose,  logically  s})eaking,  I  had  been  saying 
"  thank  you  "  for  a  long  time,  ])utting  the  cart 
before  the  horse,  so  to  speak :  so  at  least  the 
lady's  kind-hearted  letter  indicates  with  such 
grace.  15ut  who  would  be  logical  ?  I  wanted  to 
say  it  again. 

Of  course  I  did  nothing  ;  but  here  was  a  chance 
for  a  search-novel  all  to  hand.  To  find  that  Lady 
Bountiful !  I  might,  of  course,  have  stumbled  on 
the  trail  instantly ;  and  it  might  have  taken  years. 
Sherlock  Holmes,  I  suppose,  would  have  placed 
lier  letter  under  the  microscope  ;  he  would  have 
analysed  the  ink  ;  he  would  have  carried  a  little 
sample  of  the  tea  to  the  Docks — possibly  even  to 
Russia.      How  interesting  it  would  all  be  ! 

So  1  have  never  been  able  to  say  "Thank  you." 
Not  until  now. 

And  yet  will  She  read  this  book  also,  or  have  I 
outstayed  my  welcome  ?  .   .   . 


62 


A  Philosopher  that  Failed     ^       ^        <:> 

/~\F    Oliver   Edwards,    nothing,    I    believe,    i& 
^-^      known  beyond  the  fact  that  he  had  been 
at  Pembroke  College  with  Dr.  Johnson  ;  that  he 
was  a  solicitor  in  Barnard's  Inn  ;  that  he  married 
twice ;  that    he    lived    on  a  little    farm    of  sixty 
acres  near  Stevenage  and  came  to  London  twice 
a  week ;  and  that  he  wore  grey  clothes  and  a  wig 
with   many  curls,   and  went  to  church  on  Good 
Fridays.      We  know  of   Edwards'  life   only  this^ 
and  of  his  speech  w^e  have  only  some  dozen  sen- 
tences ;  and  yet  he  will  live  for  ever,  by  virtue  of 
having  crossed  the  stage  of  literature  on  one  fine 
morning  one  hundred  and  twenty-nine  years  ago. 
He  might  be  likened  to  the  bird  with  which  the 
Venerable  Bede  compared  the  life   of  man  in  a 
famous  and  beautiful  passage :  the  bird  that  fliea 
out  of  the  dark  void  into  the  lighted  banqueting 
hall  and  out  again  into  the  void  once  more.     So 
with  Edwards :  for  sixty  years  he  was  not ;   thei; 
63 


A  Good  Friday   Meeting 

he  met  Dr.  Johnson  and  liis  Boswcll  in  Hiitcher 
How,  stayed  with  tlieni  for  an  hour;  and  was  not 
aujain.  JJiit  the  liour  was  sufficient :  it  «i:ave  liini 
time  to  make  his  one  deathless  remark.  By 
virtue  of  that  remark  lie  lives,  and  will  live. 

Edwards's  day  was  (iood  I'riday,  April  17, 
1778 — "a  deliijfhtful  day,"  says  Boswell.  How 
little  the  good  J'.dwards  can  have  thou<rht,  as  he 
climbed  out  of  his  bed  in  Barnard's  Iini  that 
morning  and  donned  his  grey  clothes  and  his 
curly  wig,  that  he  was  about  to  become  immortal. 
He  spent,  I  take  it,  the  early  hours  in  his  office, 
reading  conveyances  or  deeds  and  writing  letters  ; 
then  he  went  to  church,  whither  Dr.  Johnson  and 
l^oswell  had  also  gone,  to  St.  Clement's,  which 
through  some  strange  stroke  of  luck  is  standing, 
with  the  Doctor's  pew  intact  within  it,  to  this 
dark,  irreverent,  rebuilding  day. 

On  the  way  Boswell  (who  could  grow  the 
flower  (piite  easily  now,  having  obtained  nuich 
seed)  remarked  that  Fleet  Street  was  the  most 
cheerfid  scene  in  the  world,  adding,  skilfullv  as 
he  thought,  '•  Meet  Street  is,  in  my  nnnd,  more 
delightful  than  Tempe  !  "  The  Doctor,  however, 
having  the  same  dislike  of  the  imitator  that  most 
teachers  and  all  cynics  possess,  had  his  dash  of 
cold  water  ready.  ''  Ay,  ay,  but  let  it  be  com- 
pared with  Mull."      So  thev  passed  on  to  church, 


The  Country  Life 

where  the  Doctor  was  pleased  to  see  so  luimerous 
a  congregation. 

It  was  after  church  that  they  met  Edwards, 
whom  Johnson  had  not  seen  for  forty  years. 
The  recognition  came  from  the  lawyer,  a 
talkative,  friendly,  and  not  easily  daunted 
man,  who  thereafter  quickly  got  to  work  and 
enlarged  to  Boswell  on  the  pleasure  of  living  in 
the  country.  Boswell,  again  in  the  true  John- 
sonian manner,  replied,  "  I  have  no  notion  of  this, 
sir.  What  you  have  to  entertain  you  is,  I  think, 
exhausted  in  half  an  hour."  But  Edwards  was 
deeper  and  more  sincere.  "What,"  he  said, 
"  don't  you  love  to  have  hope  realised  ?  I  see  my 
grass,  and  my  corn,  and  my  trees  growing.  Now, 
for  instance,  I  am  curious  to  see  if  this  frost  has 
not  nipped  my  fruit  trees."  Johnson,  who  had 
been  in  a  reverie,  possibly  missing  the  familiar 
scent  of  incense, — for,  in  spite  of  BoswelTs 
innuendoes  to  the  contrary,  Edwards  does  not 
appear  to  have  been  at  all  impressed  by  the 
magnitude  and  lustre  of  his  old  friend, — here  re- 
marked, "  You  find,  sir,  you  have  fears  as  well  as 
hopes ; "  and  I  am  glad  he  did  so,  for  it  gave 
Boswell  the  opportunity  to  add  the  reflection,  "  So 
well  did  he  see  the  whole  when  another  saw  but 
the  half  of  a  subject."  And  yet  it  is  more  than 
likely  that  Edwards  saw  the  whole  too. 
E  65 


The  Parson's   Happy  Lot 

Being  comfortably  seated  in  the  Bolt  Court 
library  on  this  sunny  Good  Friday,  Edwards,  who 
had  already  commented  with  delightfid  blunt- 
ness,  but  perfect  innocence,  on  the  Doctor's  age, 
remarked,  '^  Sir,  I  remember  you  would  not  let 
us  say  'prodigious'  at  college.  For  even  then," 
he  added,  turning  to  Boswell,  "he  was  delicate 
in  language,  and  we  all  feared  him."  Johnson 
said  nothing  of  this  at  the  time,  but  to  his 
Boswell  said  afterwards,  in  private,  ''  Sir,  they 
respected  me  for  my  literature" — meaning  by 
"they"  the  undergraduates — "and  yet  it  was 
not  great  but  by  com])arison.  Sir,  it  is  amazing 
how  little  literature  there  is  in  the  world."  That 
was  one  hundred  and  twenty-nine  years  ago,  and 
it  is  amazing  still. 

The  conversation  with  ILdwards  then  turned 
to  money,  and  it  came  out  that  the  lawyer  had 
given  much  away.  He  also  admitted  to  a  longing 
to  be  a  parson  and  live  in  comfort  and  comparative 
idleness.  Johnson  had  an  opening  here,  and  took 
it.  "  I  would  rather  have  Chancery  suits  ui)on  my 
liands,"  he  said,  "than  the  care  of  souls.  No,  sir, 
I  dojiot  envy  a  clergyman's  life  as  an  easy  life, 
nor  do  I  envy  the  clergyman  who  makes  it  an 
easy  life."  Jxlwards,  however,  did.  There  is  no 
evidence  that  the  Doctor  convinced  him.  My 
impression  is  that  he  was  never  convinced  by 
66 


The  Johnsonian  Game 

anyone's  arguments.  I  picture  him  as  the  kind 
of  man  -vvho  goes  through  life  contentedly,  secure 
in  his  o\vn  opinion. 

Nothing  could  daunt  Edwards,  and  so  innocent 
and  happy  was  he  that  he  had  no  notion  he  was 
not  observing  the  strict  rules  of  the  game.  The 
rules  of  the  Johnson  conversational  game  made 
it  imperative  that  you  should  utter  only  questions 
or  provocative  opinions,  and  then  wait  for  the 
answer  and  receive  it  humbly.  But  Edwards 
smilingly  broke  them  all.  He  asked  questions, 
it  is  true,  but  long  before  the  Doctor  could 
reply  he  had  volunteered,  with  appalling  hardi- 
hood, scraps  of  autobiography.  If  there  is  one 
thing  an  autobiographer  like  Johnson  cannot 
stand  it  is  the  autobiography  of  others.  And 
yet  the  Doctor,  with  his  great  human  imagina- 
tion, knew  that  Edwards  was  a  pearl  of  sincerity 
and  candour,  and  in  his  heart,  I  am  sure,  valued 
him  accordingly.  "  I  have  been  twice  married, 
Doctor,"  said  Edwards,  apropos  of  nothing, 
cheerily  adding  the  terrifying  sentiment,  "  You, 
I  suppose,  have  never  known  what  it  was  to 
have  a  wife  ?  "  This — to  Johnson  !  We  can 
see  Boswell  shivering  on  his  chair's  edge. 
"  Sir,"  said  Dr.  Johnson,  "  I  have  known  what 
it  was  to  have  a  wife,  and  [in  a  solemn,  tender, 
faltering  tone]  I  have  known  what  it  was  to  lose 
67 


"  Some  hogsheads,   I   warrant  vou  " 

a  wife.  It  had  almost  broke  my  lieart."  Edwards 
was  unabashed.  He  said  instantly,  ''  How  do 
you  live,  sir.-"  addiiiix,  "For  my  part,  I  must 
have  my  regular  meals  and  a  glass  of  good  wine." 
Dr.  Johnson  replied  suitably — the  kind  of  reply 
that  would  usually  settle  the  matter  amunff 
his  guests — "  I  now  drink  no  wine,  sir.  Early  in 
life  I  drank  wine  ;  for  many  years  I  drank  none. 
I  tlien  for  some  years  drank  a  great  deal." 
Edwards  rose  to  a  fine  height  of  irreverence 
Iiere,  to  the  immense  dismay,  I  have  no  doubt, 
of  Boswell,  who,  with  all  his  advantages,  had 
not  been  at  Pembroke  with  his  hero.  He  cut 
in  with,  "  Some  hogsheads,  I  warrant  you."  The 
Doctor  succeeded  in  taking  no  notice  (quite  pos- 
sibly he  was  secretly  flattered  ;  we  all  like  to  be 
credited  with  great  deeds),  and  continued  his 
dull  alimentary  history ;  but  the  victory  was 
Edwards's,  for  the  Doctor,  when  asked  if  he 
ate  supper,  merely  and  very  uncharacteristically 
said  "No,"  leaving  it  for  his  visitor  to  remark, 
with  something  of  the  great  man's  own  manner 
made  human,  "  For  my  part,  now,  I  consider 
supper  as  a  turn))ike  through  wliich  one  nuist 
pass  in  order  to  get  to  bed." 

That  is  good  enougli  ;  but  it   is  not   the  single 
remark  by  which   lUl wards  is  known — on  which 
his  deathless  fame  rests.     Tliat  had  come  earlier. 
68 


Cheerfulness  breaking  in 

"You  are  a  i)hilosopher,  Dr.  Johnson/'  said 
Edwards.  "  1  have  tried,  too,  in  my  time  to  be 
a  philosopher ;  but  I  don't  know  how ;  cheer- 
fuhiess  was  always  breaking  in."  That  was 
Edwards's  great  speech.  By  virtue  of  that 
candid  confession  he  takes  his  place  with  the 
shining  company  of  simple  souls,  the  hierarchy 
of  the  ingenuous.  It  was  too  much  for  Boswell, 
who  had  no  eye  for  children,  young  or  old.  But 
on  repeating  it  to  Mr.  Burke,  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds, 
Mr.  Courtenay,  Mr.  Malone,  and,  indeed,  all  the 
eminent  men  he  knew,  they  said  with  one  accord 
that  "  it  was  an  exquisite  trait  of  character."  He 
therefore  refrained  from  belittling  it  in  the  book. 
To  Boswell's  intense  relief,  Edwards  at  last 
went.  He  had  begun  by  calling  Dr.  Johnson 
(who  was  sixty-nine)  old;  he  left  with  another 
reference  to  his  age.  Looking  him  full  in  the 
face,  he  said, ''  You'll  find  in  Dr.  Young  the  line, 

'O  my  coevals!  remnants  of  yourselves.'" 

When  he  Mas  gone,  Boswell  came  to  himself 
again,  and  quickly  remarked  that  he  thought 
him  a  weak  man ;  and  the  Doctor,  smarting 
under  the  imputation  of  senility,  was,  I  regret 
to  say,  weak  enough  to  agree.  But  they  were 
both  wrong.  Edwards  was  a  strong  man — strong 
in  his  cheerfulness  and  his  transparency. 
69 


A  Sketch  Book  ^ 


T^  VER  since  I  first  read  Mr.  Housmaii's  Shrop- 
shire Lad,  that  beautiful,  melancholy  euloii y 
of  Nature  and  elegy  on  Man,  these  lines  have  run 

in  my  head,  and  "  Some 

"CluntonandClunbury,        j^^^-     |     Y\ii\^     g.^^^^     aj 

Clungunfordand  Clun,        .„  ^      ^,,        ,,       ,      , 

,        .  ,  Will    ffo  to   Clun.        And 

Are  the  quietest  places  ^ 

Under  the  sun."  "O^^'    ^    ^^'^^'^    seen    Clun, 

and    Clunton,    and   Clun- 

bury   (but   not   Clungunford),  and    I    know    that 

the  poet  is  one  who  tells  the  truth.     They  are 

the  (juietest  places  under  the  sun. 

1  walked  to  Clun  from  Craven  Arms,  that 
busy  junction  of  rails  in  a  country  of  road  travel- 
lers, under  the  shadow  of  Callow  Hill  and  Wen- 
lock  Ivlge  ;  and  by  great  good  fortune  I  walked 
on  a  Monday  morning — good  fortune,  because  on 
Mondays  tliere  is  an  auction  of  cattle  at  Craven 
Arms,  and  faring  westward  then  one  meets 
70 


The  Road  to  Cluii 

little  companies  of  sheep  and  lambs,  and  little  com- 
panies of  bullocks,  and  here  a  stallion,  and  there  a 
bull,  and  carts  containing  jolly  Shropshire  farmers 
in  front  and  calves  under  nets  behind,  and  carts 
containing  just  jolly  Shropshire  farmers,  and  carts 
containing  jolly  Shropshire  farmers  in  front  and 
pigs  behind,  and  jolly  Shropshire  farmers  on 
horseback,  and  now  and  then  a  woman  with  a 
basket.  And  sometimes  the  sheep  are  driven  by 
old  men,  and  sometimes  by  boys,  and  sometimes 
by  men  on  horseback,  and  once  on  this  Monday 
by  a  gay  young  farmer  on  a  bicycle,  his  machine 
being  the  only  modern  note  in  the  day.  For  the 
rest,  it  was  sheer  Chaucer. 

Thus  it  was  all  the  way  to  Clun — or  nearly  all 
the  way — nine  miles,  until  1  asked  myself,  "  What 
can  Clun  be  like  after  this  exodus  ?  Can  there  be 
a  beast  left  within  its  walls  ?  "  A  question  that 
was  answered  all  in  good  time  by  the  sight  of 
numberless  bullocks  and  sheep  and  lambs  in  all 
the  meadows  that  encompass  that  quiet  place. 
For  in  this  part  of  Shropshire  the  animals  of 
the  field  are  as  the  sands  of  the  seashore. 

The  road  lies  in  the  valleys,  one  of  which  melts 
naturally  into  another  all  the  way.  First  comes 
Aston-on-Clun,  Clun  being  not  only  the  quiet 
place,  but  also  a  mirthful,  busy,  inquisitive  mill- 
stream  with  insinuating  activities  and  a  contented 
71 


Pasha  and   Harem 

purr,  that  keejis  one  comjvuiy  all  the  ^vay  here- 
after— always  busy  and  <ijay,  and  always  talking 
to  itself.  Aston-on-Clun  is  notable  for  a  good 
inn,  with  tlie  unexjiected  style  "The  Kangaroo," 
kept,  and  kept  genially  and  well,  by  a  host  and 
hostess  who,  when  they  walk  out  together  (if  ever 
they  do),  must  strike  dismay  into  the  local 
culverts.  Then  the  road  climbs  a  hill,  below 
which,  on  the  left,  all  among  the  greenest  water 
meadows,  is  Clunbury,  which  is  little  more  than 
a  great  farmyard  to  which  a  church  and  cottages 
have  been  added — and  oh,  so  quiet  under  the 
sun  ! 

In  some  ways  Clunbury  is  the  quietest  (always 
excepting  Clungunford,  which  I  did  not  see), 
because  it  is  off  the  road,  and  few  must  be  the 
travellers  who  find  it.  Clunton  is  right  in  the 
road  ;  but  before  we  enter  it  I  must  tell  you  of  an 
embarrassment.  For  suddenly  at  the  side  of  the 
road  appeared  the  whitest,  uprightest,  boldest 
chanticleer  you  ever  saw,  tame  and  friendly,  and  no 
sooner  had  I  done  admiring  him  and  passed  on, 
than  there  sprang  from  nowhere  eleven  hens, 
white  and  sj)lendid  as  himself,  and  forthwith  the 
whole  harem,  j)asha  and  all,  set  out  to  follow 
me  into  Clunton.  I  hastened  my  steps ;  they 
hastened  theirs  :  it  began  to  be  ridiculous.  To 
enter  one  of  the  (juietest  })laces  under  the  sun 
7» 


The  Necessaries  of  Life 

pursued,  like  the  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin,  by  a 
crowd,  not  of  children,  but  poultr\',  would  be  too 
absurd— apart  altogether  from  a  suggestion  of 
theft.  And  so — much  against  my  will,  for  there 
was  a  rare  compliment  here,  a  homage  to  which 
I  am  totally  unused :  to  be  followed  with  such 
affection  by  these  dazzling  aristocrats  of  the  field 
— so  I  shoo'd  them  back,  and  passed  through 
Clunton  unattended,  just  the  ordinary,  insignifi- 
cant creature  that  I  am,  without  retinue  or  the 
adoration  of  fowls  ;  and  so  on  to  the  goal. 

Clun,  I  may  say  at  once,  has  all  the  necessaries 
of  life.  It  has  a  river,  and  a  grey  bridge,  and  a 
church  half-way  up  the  hill,  and  a  castle  high  on 
its  green  mound,  with  noble  stonework  still 
remaining,  and  a  hospital  for  old  men,  such  as 
Anthony  Trollope's  Warden  had  in  his  care,  each 
old  man  having  to  wear  a  cap  and  gown  in  Clun's 
few  but  important  streets  ;  and  several  inns,  of 
which,  remembering  good  fortune  at  Aston-on- 
Clun,  I  made  choice  of  "  The  Buffalo."  And 
while  the  meal  Mas  preparing  I  sat  on  a  seat  in 
the  sunny  garden  on  a  southern  slope,  and 
watched  the  smoke  stealing  up  from  the  chimneys 
beyond  the  river  below,  and  heard  the  sleepy 
sounds  from  the  timber  yard,  and  now  and  then 
a  dog  barked  or  a  cock  crew,  and  now  and  then 
someone  crossed  the  bridge,  not  because  he  had 
73 


Clungunford   Unvisited 

any  business  to  do — oh  dear,  no  I — but  merely 
to  get  to  the  other  side,  where  it  might  be 
warmer ;  and  sitting  there,  I  knew  tliat  the 
poet  knew.  It  is  the  quietest  place  under  the 
sun. 

Some  day  I   shall  go  to  Clun  again.      For  the 
present  I  am  the  happier  for  having  been  there. 

"  Clunlon  and  Clunbuiy, 
Clungunford  and  Clun, 
Are  the  quietest  places 
Under  the  sun." 


Hut  what  of  Clungunford  ?     It  may  be  the  best 
of  all.      Some  day  I  shall  know. 


II 

'^Talking    of    bathing,"     said    the    Captain,    "I 

remember,    years    and     years    ago,    when    I    was 

a})})rentice,  we  was  lying  at  Sarawak. 

,,  , ,     ^.        livery  morning  me  and  Fred  Wynn — 
Golden  Age.  -^  '^ 

he  was  the  other  ap})rentic'e — we  had 
to  go  a  matter  of  a  mile  or  so  through  the  woods 
to  fetch  water.  We  carried  the  beaker  Chinese 
fashion,  slung  to  a  })ole  acrost  t)ur  shoulders. 
Well,  the  first  morning,  as  we  drew  up  to  the 
sj)ring — ^^just  a  little  basin  of  rock  with  the  water 
running  into  it  ;  beautiful  water  il  was,  clciir  as 
74 


A  Sarawak   Memory 

crystal,  and  cold,  cold  as  ice — as  we  drew  up  to 
the  spring,  there  was  a  lot  of  Malay  girls  standing 
round.  Girls  maybe  of  fifteen  or  so — that's  to 
say,  about  our  own  age — and  fifteen's  a  woman 
in  those  hot  parts.  They'd  been  bathing,  and 
one  was  in  the  water  when  we  hove  in  sight,  and 
as  naked  as  my  hand,  all  of  'em,  except  for  a  little 
shimmy  thing.  Fred  was  for  stopping,  but  I  said, 
^Come  along,  I  mean  to  have  a  bathe.'  Well, 
the  girls  stood  by  laughing  among  themselves, 
and  just  as  I  was — in  a  pair  of  trousers  and 
a  singlet — I  jumped  in,  splash!  Lord,  it  nearly 
cut  me  in  two,  it  was  that  cold.  You  wouldn't 
believe  how  cold  it  was!  But  we  always  went 
in  every  morning,  naked  if  we  were  alone,  or  just 
as  we  were  if  the  girls  were  there.  But,  bless 
you,  they  wouldn't  have  minded  any  way. 

"  After  a  time  we  got  quite  chummy  :  used  to 
run  races  with  them.  I  thought  I  could  run  in 
those  days :  I  was  reckoned  pretty  fast.  But, 
bless  you,  those  girls  'Id  gather  up  their  little 
shimmy  things  round  their  waists  with  one  hand 
and  run  like  a  good-fellow.  Me  and  Fred  wasn't 
nowhere. 

"And  afterwards   we'd   sling  their  water  jugs 

on  the  pole  along  with  our   beaker,  and  two  or 

three  girls  would   hang  on    each  end,  and  we'd 

carry  'em  along  to  just  outside  the  village,  kiss 

75 


In  a  Spanish  Jail 

*em  good-bye  all  round,  and  then  make  all  sail  for 
the  ship. 

"Ah!"  added   the  Captain,  "they  were  ^^^ood 
times." 

Ill 

"  OxcE,"  said  the  detective,  "  I  had  to  go  to  Spain 

to  bring  back  an  embezzler.     Extradited,  he  was. 

While  I  was  there  I  looked  into  the 
The  Debt.     •    .,      r.,,  r-      ^^^  .1 

jail.     Ihere  was  an  Englishman  there, 

a  sailor.       'Hullo,  Jack,'   I  said,  'what    are    you 

here  for  ? '     '  Why,'  he  said,  '  they  give  me  three 

years  for  blacking  a  policeman's  eye.'     '  No  ? '  I  said. 

'Straight!'  says  he.     'I'd  had  a  drop  too  much 

one  night,  and  the  swine  interfered,  and  I  landed 

him  a  black  eye.     Nothing  more,  swelp  me,  and 

they  give  me  three  years  for  it.'     'Well,  Jack,' 

I  said,  '  I'll  see  if  a    sovereign  is  any  good  (for 

I  know  what  money  can  do  out  there),  and  if  it 

is,  I'll  stand  it.'     I    tried,  but  it  wasn't  no  use. 

He  was  too  good  a  man  for  them,  I  think.     I  went 

back  the  next  day  to  tell  him,  and  found  him  with 

a  whip  in  his  hand  in  charge  of  a  gang  of  Spanish 

})risoners.      He   was    lashing  away   all   he   knew. 

'All  right,'  he  said,  when  I   told  him;  'then  I'll 

have  to  stay  it  out,  I  suppose.'     And  he  went  on 

lamming  into  his  men.     '  I    reckon   I'll  get  ([uit 

with  this  country  by  degrees,'  he  said," 

76 


A  Staffordshire  Cynic 

IV 

As  a  guide  to  old  customs  and  old  humours  the 

domestic  pottery  of  England  is  quite  trustworthy, 

and   I  recommend   anyone  who  visits 

The         Briohton,  and  has  time  to  call,  to  look 
Beerometer.          ^  _        _  „  .       ,      ,, 

attheW  illett  Collection m  the  Museum 

there.       Walking    idly    through    it    lately,  1  was 

attracted  by  a  case  entitled  ''  Conviviality,"  given 

up  to  jugs  and  mugs  with  snatches  of  song  upon 

them,  drinking  mottoes,  and  so  forth,  and  a  pretty 

sprinkling  of  topers  and  maltworms  and  tosspots. 

Among  this  welter  of  flaming  noses  and  Imperial 

pints  my  eye  was  caught  by  the  "Staffordshire 

Beerometer,"  which  I  went  to  the  pains  of  copying. 

Here  it  is  : — 

50.   Drunk  as  a  Lord. 

45.   Drunk. 

40.  Disguised  in  Liquor. 

35.  As  sober  as  a  man  ought  to  be.     (Knows  what  he  is 

about. ) 
30.   Drunk  without,  but  sober  within. 
25.   Fresh.     (Worse  for  liquor. ) 
20.   Market  fresh.     (Has  had  a  drop.) 
10.  Sober  as  a  Judge. 
5.  Sober  as  I  am   now.     (Have   had    5    (juarts   among 

three  of  us.) 
o.  Sober. 

5.   Had  nothing  since  breakfast. 
10.   Had  nothing  to-day. 

77 


The  Nature  of  a  Lord 

At  a  time  when  there  is  talk  of  reformiii<T  tlie 
l'l)per  C'liamber,  it  is  pleasant  to  note  tlie  liigh- 
^^ater  (or  shoiiUl  one  say  liigh-l)eer  ?)  mark  of  the 
drinker's  ambition.  Lords,  say  what  you  will, 
have  their  use.  Of  course  it  was,  to  a  beer-eater 
(as  the  vivid  modern  slang  has  it)  in  a  Stafford- 
shire i)ot-house  the  rosiest  dream — to  be  drunk 
as  a  Lord.  A  Lord  (whatever  he  may  be  now, 
and  my  own  impression  is  that  Lords  will  be 
Lords  always)  was  then  something  so  utterly 
splendid  and  ruthless :  a  gilt-edged  creature  wlio 
never  walked,  except  from  his  liorse  or  carriage 
into  the  best  room  of  an  inn,  and  back  again  ; 
who  had  his  way  with  most  men  and  all 
women  ;  who  ate  meat  whenever  he  wanted  it, 
and  knew  the  King  as  a  brother.  That  was  a 
Lord.     To  be  drunk  hke  such  a  man  as  that ! 

At  the  other  extreme  should,  but  does  not, 
come  the  Judge.  The  Apogee  and  the  Nadir — 
the  Lord  and  the  Judge.  But  alas !  it  is  not  so. 
The  Staffordshire  satirist  knew  better,  and  below 
that  of  the  Judge  are  two  degrees  of  sobriety — 
^^  Sober  as  I  am  now"  and  "Sober."  Hut  the 
Beerometer  is  at  least  a  hundred  years  old,  and 
perhaps  older.  Times  have  changed.  Judges  to- 
(lay  .   .  . 

I   do  not  consider  the   Beerometer  to  be  too 
intelligent,      ll   misses  scores  of  fine  shades,  the 

78 


''  Market-Merry  " 

nuances  of  inebriation.  But  for  the  audience  for 
whom  it  was  intended — the  Staffordshire  beer- 
eaters — it  served.  After  all,  to  know  his  audience 
is  the  first  essential  of  the  rural  wit.  Perhaps  the 
state  at  20  degrees  is  the  most  ingenious  — 
"market  fresh" — though  I  prefer  the  commoner 
term  (to  me)  of  "market  merry."  I  have  always 
thought  "market  merry"  one  of  the  happiest  of 
countryside  coinages.  It  says  everything,  and  says 
it  so  simply  and  gaily.  I  suppose  that  SO  degrees 
was  what  Terence  Mulvaney  had  reached  when 
he  claimed  to  be  properly  sober  in  the  head 
but  "ondacently  drunk  about  the  legs."  The 
condition  at  35  degrees  is  very  pleasantly  stated  ; 
but  here  I  run  risks  of  arousing  the  teetotalers, 
for  the  sentiment  (with  the  mercury  so  high) 
cuts  into  their  very  existence.  "As  sober  as  a 
man  ought  to  be"  is  their  own  motto — but  at 
zero.     To  find  it  at  35  is  the  devil. 


I  MET  her  in   Antwerp,  in  a  saloon  where  Eng- 
lish and   Scotch   captains,  mates,   and  engineers 
could   hear   their  own   language  and 

—  "  y  °"  y_  clrink  their  native  beverages — an  odd 
Baroness.  ^  ,  .  .  „ 

place    for    a    noblewoman,    especially 

one  so  old  and  white,  sprightly  still,  and  with  a 
79 


Baroness  and   Poet 

melancholy  dignity  th.it  impressed  me  not  a  little, 
and  also  impressed  some  rather  too  high-si)irited 
young  people  who  would  have  made  fun  of  her 
had  she  abated  a  jot  of  this  birthright. 

It  was  two  in  the  morning  when  she  entered, 
with  a  large  book  under  her  arm  and  in  her  hand 
a  bundle  of  tickets.  The  tickets  were  for  a 
concert  she  was  giving,  and  I  bought  one, 
altiiough  it  was  not  till  the  next  week,  when  I 
should  be  far  away  ;  and  then  she  told  me  she 
was  a  poet,  and  we  sat  down  together  at  a  little 
table,  and  she  opened  her  book  and  read  to  me 
with  fond  maternal  empressement  a  number  of 
very  indifferent  sonnets  copied  there  in  her  thin, 
angular,  foreign  hand.  Interspersed  among  the 
sonnets  were  letters  from  the  great  men  to  whom 
she  had  sent  them :  all  Frenchmen,  and  all  very 
polite  to  Madame  la  Baron ne ;  and  a  few 
cuttings,  chiefly  from  small  local  Belgian  papei-s, 
referring  to  her  concert  platform  triumphs.  She 
told  me  her  history,  too,  but  I  forget  it  ;  and  a 
few  audacious  stories,  but  I  forget  those  too. 
Her,  however,  I  shall  not  forget,  with  her  white 
head  and  her  wistful  air  of  decayed  gentility,  and 
the  occasional  hint  of  impropriety  in  her  tired  eye, 
and  her  manuscript  book  of  weak  verse  and  in- 
sincere compliments.  I  remember  her  because 
she  was  exee])tional,  but  also  because  she  was 
So 


The  Beaulieu  River 

simple  ;  and  I  know  I  made  her  happy  because 
when  she  shuffled  out  to  carry  lier  tickets  to 
another  saloon  I  kissed  her  finger-tips  and  gave 
her  such  a  bow  as  never  before  or  since  have  I 
called  on  my  poor  back  to  execute. 


VI 


It    is    in    a    sailing-boat     that    I    would     choose 

always  to  approach    Beaulieu.      It  was    thus  the 

last  time  I  saw  her — the  perfect  day. 
Beaulieu      mt     i      i  n  .i       t  i     *i 

^.  We  had  come  across  from  the  Island 

River. 

under  a  fresh  breeze^  our  ears  filled 
with  the  rush  of  our  progress,  and  the  sibilant 
wake  of  the  little  dinghy  tugging  at  its  rope 
behind,  and  all  the  murmuring  of  sails  and  cordage 
amid  light-hearted  waves  and  wind.  That  in  itself 
is  good  enough  ;  and  then  suddenly  we  had  turned 
into  the  invisible  Beaulieu  River,  as  still  as  a  pond, 
and  had  crept  inland  between  fields  and  trees  as 
silently  as  the  flight  of  a  distant  bird  save  for  the 
dinghy's  contented  chuckle. 

The  sea  for  the  great  emotions — the  high 
romance,  the  supreme  carelessness ;  but  there  is 
a  minor  romance  about  a  river  that  in  its  way  is 
equally  fascinating.  It  is  the  difference  between 
the  high  road  and  the  footpath.  If  I  had  a  yacht 
of  my  own,  I  would  always  be  sailing  up  new 
F  8r  ' 


Sailing  up  New  Rivers 

rivers.  Tt)  sail  uj)  a  new  river  is  almost  more  of 
an  enterprise  than  to  set  one's  prow  towards  the 
illimitable  ocean.  To  be  so  near  humanity,  yet 
ajiart  from  it  ;  to  thread  one's  way  in  strange 
landscapes  ;  to  j)ass  through  towns  one  has  never 
seen  before,  jjcrhaps  not  stoj)})ing  at  all ;  to  see 
men  and  women  on  the  banks  for  the  first  and 
last  time  at  once — old  men,  lovers,  children.  I 
am  thinking  now  of  the  great  rivers  that  are 
navigable  far  inland  ;  but  the  Beaulieu  River, 
though  very  short  and  very  lonely,  has  its 
romance  too.      It  leads  inland  ! 

A  house  or  so  at  the  mouth,  a  farm  a  little 
higher  on  the  left,  are  all  its  signs  of  life  until  one 
comes  to  Buckler's  Hard  ;  the  rest  is  meadows, 
trees,  and  birds.  ]5irds  all  the  way  ;  for  on  the 
first  boom  that  marks  the  entrance  channel 
a  shag  was  j)erched  motionless  with  extended 
wings,  like  a  fowl  in  heraldry.  At  one  bend  we 
surprised  a  heron,  who  fia))})ed  off  cumbrously, 
old  enough  and  wise  enough  to  have  trusted  us  ; 
curlews  were  playing  their  plaintive  reed  instru- 
ments almost  without  cessation  ;  })lovers  ran 
along  the  banks  ;  and  once  a  swan  bustled  five 
grey  cygnets  into  safety  as  we  came  into  sight. 

By  its  birds  and  its  verdant  flatness  the  Beaulieu 
River  reminded  me  not  a  little  of  the  liroads  ;  but 
the   Inroads    liave    nothing    like    Buckler's   Hard. 


The  Secret  of  Buckler's  Hard 

Buckler's  Hard  stands  alone  —  quite  the  most 
curious  village  or  hamlet  I  ever  saw.  It  is  more 
like  a  short  section  of  a  Georgian  High  Street 
than  anything  else — cut  out  of  some  quiet  old 
market  town  like  Lymington,  near  by,  and  set 
bodily  on  the  top  of  a  bank  in  a  field  by  the  side 
of  a  serene  river.  It  begins  suddenly  and  ends 
suddenly,  climbing  the  slope  indeed  to  the  sky  ; 
the  backs  of  the  houses  that  form  the  two  sides 
of  the  street  looking  upon  illimitable  greenery, 
the  fronts  facing  each  other  across  a  roadway  that 
is  grass.  With  the  exception  of  the  first  house 
on  the  right-hand  side,  all  are  about  the  same 
size ;  but  this  one  is  more  imposing  than  the 
others,  and  has  a  doorway  that  might  have  come 
from  Bedford  Row.  I  puzzled  some  time  over 
Buckler's  Hard,  where  we  disembarked  and 
loitered,  and  then  the  secret  was  given  me  by  a 
tall  fisherman  busy  with  his  nets  on  the  bank. 
There  was  once  a  dockyard  here,  and  the  houses 
were  the  homes  of  the  shipwrights,  and  the 
imposing  one  at  the  end  was  that  of  the  chief 
officer.  Nelson's  Agamemnon  was  built  here,  the 
fisherman  told  me  .  .  .  and  as  he  spoke  it  Avas 
possible  in  the  hot  noon  air  to  hear  again  the 
hammers  and  all  the  myriad  noises  of  this  noblest 
and  bravest  of  industries. 


83 


The  Beating  of  the  Hoofs      ^        <:>        <^ 

TT  A\'IN(1  occasion  tlie  other  day  to  post  from 
Brecon  to  Abergavenny,  I  was  particularly 
gratified  to  find  that  the  landlady  of  the  '' Castle" 
had  put  at  our  disposal  a  carriage  with  rubber 
tyres  and  a  i)air  of  horses  ;  for  I  knew  that  we 
were  thus  destined  to  have  the  best  of  music  all 
the  way — the  beating  of  the  hoofs.  And  it  was 
so.  Silent  or  talking,  thoughtful  or  observant  of 
the  mountains  beneath  their  grey  hoods,  I  was 
ever  conscious  of  the  sound  of  eight  loyal  and 
urgent  iron-shod  feet  —  not  so  fiercely  as  one 
hears  it  in  the  background  of  one  of  the  move- 
ments of  Hart's  "Leonore"  symphony,  but  a 
steady,  soothing  undertone. 

It  is  not  the  least  of  the  advantages  of 
the  rubber  tyre,  that  this  j)](.'asant  UR-lctdy 
is  so  clarified.  It  is  perhaps  the  best  thing 
that  Leopold,  King  of  the  Belgians  and 
Despot  of  the  Congo,  has  clone.  Bel'ore  rubber 
tyres  cauie  in,  one  had  to  go  to  the  horse 
84 


The  Glory  of  Motion 

tramways  for  it ;  and  I  remember  how  agreeable, 
in  consequence,  were  the  long  rides  up  the 
Hampstead  Road  and  the  Brecknock  Road  that 
I  took  when  first  I  came  to  London.  But  the 
hoofs  on  the  Welsh  macadam  were  better  than 
this,  for  they  were  steady  and  sure  ;  there  were 
none  of  those  sudden  and  disconcerting  mishaps 
that  are  so  common  on  London's  greasy  stones 
— those  agonised  slippings  of  the  iron  shoe  with  a 
catastrophic  clamour  to  Avhich  not  even  the  oldest 
Londoner's  ear  ever  quite  becomes  accustomed. 

I  will  not  name  the  absence  of  hoof-beats  in  so 
many  words  as  a  count  in  the  indictment  of  the 
motor-car,  because  the  indictment  of  the  motor- 
car must  be  getting  to  be  very  teasing  reading ; 
but  I  will  say  that  the  car  has  certainly  a  very 
regrettable  immunity  from  hoof-beats,  and  has 
nothing  for  the  ear  in  their  place.  For  the  ear 
nothing:  but  I  suppose  that  the  increased  speed 
that  the  petrol  offers  is,  for  most,  sufficient 
compensation.  Not,  however,  for  me,  who  have 
an  old-fashioned  notion  that  for  the  high  road,  as 
opposed  to  a  track  or  rails,  the  speed  that  horses 
may  attain  is  speed  enough.  The  glory  of  motion 
as  celebrated  by  De  Quincey  is  as  much  of  that 
glory  as  most  of  us  sinners  are  entitled  to.  I 
have  an  uneasy  feeling  that  1  have  not  earned  the 
right  to  dash  along  at  twenty-five  to  thirty-five 
8s 


The  Speed  of  Horses 

miles  an  liour,— that  we  ought  not  to  go  faster 
than  the  liorse, — although  I  should  be  puzzled  to 
say  exactly  what  it  was  I  had  left  undone  that 
would  qualify  me  to  do  so.  IJut  the  feeling  is 
there,  none  the  less,  and  it  is  none  the  weaker 
for  being  vague. 

What  I  sometimes  wonder  is,  would  De 
Quincey,  were  he  able  to  sit  beside  Mr. 
Jarrott,  or  that  terrible  Belgian,  Jenatzy, 
have  an  increased  sense  of  speed,  or  would  he 
still  pin  his  faith  to  horses  to  convey  most  pro- 
foundly the  impression  of  velocitous  travel  ? 
Because  it  is  not,  of  course,  always  the  fastest 
thing  that  most  suggests  fastness.  A  moderately 
hasty  omnibus,  for  example,  rolling  down  White- 
hall, would  seem  to  be  moving  with  a  greater 
impetus  than  the  hansom  that  overtook  it :  and  I 
can  conceive  it  possible  that  a  runaway  stage  coach, 
going  at  only  fifteen  miles  an  hour,  might  have  a 
far  more  impressive  onset  than  a  motor-car  going 
at  forty  miles  an  hour,  under  perfect  control. 
If  so,  that  would  justify  l)e  (Juincey. 

But  the  comparison  would  be  fair  only  if  the 
observer  were  liorse-blind.  It  would  be  the  horse 
that  would  really  convey  the  impression  of  speed  ; 
not  the  speed  itself  The  speed  of  a  motor-car, 
even  at  forty  miles  an  hour,  one  would  not  notice 
very  vividly  unless  one  were  in  its  wind,  so  to 
86 


The  Noblest  Animal 

speak ;  but  the  speed  of  four  horses  plunging 
along,  out  of  control,  with  a  coach  of  people 
behind  them,  would  seem  to  be  terrific,  because 
the  eye  would  be  trebly  fed  :  fed  with  the  actual 
quickness  of  the  vehicle,  so  much  quicker  than 
usual ;  fed  with  the  alarm  of  the  passengers  ;  but 
most  of  all  fed  with  the  fury  and  appalling 
madness  of  energy  of  the  animals  themselves, 
all  so  frantic  and  undisciplined.  I  have  not  seen 
many  runaway  horses,  but  all  that  I  have  seen 
filled  me  with  a  tightening  alarm  that  I  can  still 
recall  with  the  utmost  vividness. 

I  doubt  if  a  sculptor  or  painter,  challenged  to 
represent  the  most  sublimely  terrifying  thing  that 
human  beings  can  meet,  could  do  better  than  to 
mould  or  depict  a  frenzied  horse.  I  believe  that 
the  horse  is  not  only  the  noblest  animal  we  know, 
but  in  its  rage  the  most  terrible.  It  is  customary 
to  say  that  the  lion  is  the  noblest  creature,  but 
the  lion,  for  all  his  grandeur,  has  a  furtive  look  ; 
and  the  tiger  even  more  so  ;  while  the  elephant, 
for  all  his  size,  has  just  that  touch  of  the  grotesque 
which  is  fatal.  But  the  horse  is  beautiful,  and 
noble  too.  And  it  is  all  to  his  advantage  as  a 
symbol  of  teiTor  that  he  is  normally  the  kindly 
friend  of  man,  in  perfect  subjection,  and  that  his 
frenzy  is  an  aberration.  The  contrast  intensifies 
the  emotion. 

87 


The  Incomplete  Philipplan 

I  should,  liowcver,  be  conveying  a  very  false 
imj)ression  if  these  remarks  upon  the  noble  animal 
led  anyone  to  suppose  that  I  am  either  a  horse- 
man or  even  comfortable  in  a  horse's  presence. 
(Juite  the  reverse.  I  am  one  to  whom  the  horse 
is  an  unknown  and  perilous  quantity.  I  have  for 
horses  and  dogs  an  affection  that  most  people 
seem  to  keep  for  their  fellow-men  ;  but  although 
with  dogs  I  am  at  home,  I  am  totally  at  a  loss 
to  know  how  to  deal  with  the  larger  creature.  A 
horse's  eye  disquiets  me :  it  has  an  expression 
of  alarm  that  may  at  any  moment  be  translated 
into  action.  I  like  to  know  where  an  animal  is 
looking,  and  these  bright,  startled,  liquid  con- 
vexities never  tell  me. 

I  have  been  on  a  horse's  back,  it  is  true.  I 
once  hired  a  horse  and  rode  it  over  the  South 
Downs  for  a  fortnight ;  but  I  never  feel  that 
there  is  true  rapport  between  a  horse  and 
myself  I  began  too  late.  To  understand  horses 
and  be  understood  by  hoi-ses,  one  must  be  brought 
up  with  them.  But  for  the  great  centaurs — the 
giants  of  the  saddle — no  one  can  have  more 
admiration  than  I  :  a  little,  perhaps,  because 
they  are  so  foreign,  almost  so  astral,  a  j)eoj)le. 
I  don't  mean  jockeys,  who  are  mere  riding  auto- 
mata without  personalities ;  1  mean  the  great 
hunting  men  witli  the  noble  and  resonant  names, 
88 


The  Great  Centaurs 

— and  of  all  of  w  horn  "  characteristic  anecdotes  " 
(brave  words  !  )  are  told, — the  men  celebrated  by 
the  glowing  pen  of  "Nimrod  "  :  Tom  Assheton- 
Smith,  and  Hugo  Meynell,  and  Sir  Bellingham 
Graham,  and  Tom  Sebright,  and  Mr.  Osbaldeston, 
and  Jack  Musters,  and  John  Mytton,  and  John 
Warde  of  Squerries. 

When  one  reads  the  lives  of  the  ordinary  great 
men  —  statesmen,  poets,  divines,  painters,  and 
so  forth — one  can  to  a  considerable  extent  put 
oneself  in  their  place  :  the  life  described,  although 
carried  out  to  a  high  power,  is  still  more  or  less 
one's  own,  is  recognisable.  But  to  read  "Nimrod's" 
generous  and  spirited  pages — to  read  of  these 
mighty  and  wonderful  horsemen — is  (with  me) 
to  be  transported  to  a  kind  of  fairyland  to  which 
I  am  never  likely  really  to  penetrate,  and  where, 
if  I  did,  I  should  be  an  alien  and  ashamed.  That 
is  why  I  think  "  Nimrod  "  one  of  the  greatest  of 
writers — because  he  takes  me  into  an  unattain- 
able world  and  keeps  me  enchantecl. 

^^When  Jack  Shirley  was  whip})er-in  to  Mr. 
Smith,  he  was  riding  an  old  horse  called  Gadsby 
(not  much  the  better  for  having  been  many  years 
ridden  by  his  master)  over  one  of  the  worst  fields 
in  Leicestershire  for  a  blown  horse — between 
Tilton  and  Somerby — abounding  with  large  ant- 
hills and  deep,  holding  furrows.  The  old  horse 
was  going  along  at  a  good   slapping  pace,  with 

89 


Captain  Bridges 

his  head  quite  loose,  and  dowiiliill  at  the  time, 
Nvliilst  Jack  was  in  the  act  of  putting  a  lash  to 
iiis  whip,  haling  a  large  open  clasp  knife  behrccn 
his  tcclh  at  the  time  !  " 

That  is  the  kind  of  thin<^  that  '^*  Nimrod  "  tells, 
and  what  could  be  more  different  from  the  ordinary 
routine  of  a  literary  man  ! 

Or  take  Captain  Bridges  of  the  Hambledon 
Hmit  :— 

"  Being  out  one  day  with  the  foxhounds,  he 
saw  two  gentlemen  parleying  with  a  farmer  in  a 
gateway,  who  refused  to  let  them  pass  through  it. 
The  Captain  rode  uj)  to  them,  and  asked  what 
was  the  matter.  '  ^Vhy,'  said  one  of  the  gentle- 
men, '  this  farmer  says  he  will  murder  the  first 
man  who  attempts  to  go  into  his  field.'  '  Does 
he?'  said  the  Captain;  'then  here  goes,  life 
for  life,'  and  innnediately  charged  him.  The 
fellow  aimed  a  desperate  blow  at  his  head  with 
a  very  heavy  stick,  which,  in  spite  of  the  velvet 
cap,  would  have  felled  him  to  the  ground,  if  he 
had  not  had  the  good  fortune  to  have  avoided 
it ;  when,  taking  to  his  heels,  the  coward  fied, 
with  the  Ca})tain  after  him,  and  absolutely  crept 
into  a  large  covered  drain  to  avoid  him.  '  Who- 
whoo})!'  said  the  Captain,  M've  run  him  to 
ground,  by  G-d  !  '  " 

^^Nimrod  "  tells  us,  later,  in  proof  of  the  Captain's 
humour,  that  the  last  time  he  saw  him  out  he 
told  him  he  had  been  severely  attacked   by  gout 


John   Mytton 

in  the  early  morning,  but,  '"determined  to  hunt," 
he  had  taken  two  strong  calomel  pills  and  sixty 
drops  of  colchicum  ;  on  the  top  of  tins  he  had 
put  a  glass  of  hot  gin  and  water  on  the  road  to 
covert,  "  to  keep  things  in  their  place."  There's  a 
captain  for  you  !  It  was  of  this  gallant  sportsman, 
by  the  way,  that  "Nimrod"  uses  the  admirably 
descriptive  phrase  :  "  the  nightingale  had  oftener 
heard  him  than  he  had  the  nightingale." 

A  tired  journalist,  worn  with  town,  looking 
out  for  a  hero,  an  exemplar — could  he  do  better 
than  choose  Captain  Bridges  ?  Yet  how  impos- 
sible ! 

But  of  the  harum-scarum  hunting  man  Mytton 
is  the  blazing  example.  Even  less  like  the  daily 
routine  of  a  journalist  and  literary  hack  was  the 
career  of  this  inspired  rake-hell,  who  thought  so 
little  of  money  that  he  could  be  traced  in  his 
morning  walks  by  dropped  bundles  of  banknotes  ; 
who  fought  dogs  wuth  his  teeth,  on  equal  terms, 
and  won  ;  who  drank  six  bottles  of  port  daily,  the 
first  while  shaving  ;  who  spent  £10,000  in  getting 
into  Parliament,  and  occupied  his  seat  only  half 
an  hour ;  who  consented  to  go  to  Oxford  only  on 
condition  that  he  was  never  asked  to  open  a  book  ; 
who  jumped  toll-gates  in  his  gig  ;  who  owned  and 
hunted  two  packs,  and  once  came  in  at  the  death, 
after  many  hours'  riding,  with  three  broken  ribs  ; 
91 


English  Wild   Oats 

who  set  a  sprin<r  trap  for  his  clia))laiii  one  Sunday 
morninff,  and,  liavinff  caught  him,  thouijht  the 
frolic  amply  atoned  for  by  a  bottle  of  Madeira  ; 
who  thrashed  all  who  offended  him,  and  afterwards 
gave  them  a  guinea  ;  and  who,  when  some  kind 
of  compromise  was  offered  him  by  his  lawyer 
which  would  save  an  estate  from  the  hammer  and 
produce  him  an  income  of  £6000  a  year,  remarked, 
"  I  wouldn't  give  a  damn  to  live  on  <£()000  a 
year."  Surely  if  unlikelihood  of  imitation  is  a 
measure  of  admiration  (as  it  is),  here  is  a  hero 
indeed  for  a  quill-driver  who  nnist  keep  otlice 
hours ! 

Ever  since  I  can  remember  I  have  been 
fascinated  by  the  life  of  John  Mytton,  although 
there  is  no  real  pleasure  to  be  taken  in  it.  The 
s])ectacle  of  the  riotous  spendthrift,  the  man 
whose  only  enemy  is  himself,  as  we  say,  is  melan- 
choly enough,  however  we  consider  it.  Why  not, 
then,  leave  poor  Mytton's  ghost  unvexed  ?  IJecause, 
I  would  say,  he  was  great.  In  his  way  he  was 
among  the  giants.  England  has  produced  many 
madcaps,  many  wastrels  of  genius  :  to  go  the  pace 
recklessly,  to  sow  wild  oats,  seeming  to  be  more 
easy  with  our  youth  tiian  with  those  of  any  nation, 
the  result  probably  of  security  and  wealth  and  the 
absence  of  that  enforced  military  service  which 
reminds  the  young  Continental  so  forcibly  that  he 
92 


A  Furious   Career 

is  but  a  cog  in  a  great  machine,  together  with 
a  certain  tendency  in  the  national  character 
(observed  once  very  acutely  by  Falstaff)  to  overdo 
our  amusements. 

It  is  not  so  long  since  Mytton  died  :  1834 — the 
same  year  in  which  died  Charles  Lamb.  He  was 
born  in  the  year  that  saw  Lamb  contributing 
poems  to  Coleridge's  first  volume,  179^,  and  it  is 
not  uninteresting  to  reflect  how  diff"erent  were  the 
two  lives  that  were  simultaneously  to  pass  in 
London  and  at  Halston,  Mytton's  home  in  Shrop- 
shire. Mytton's  father  died  when  his  son  was 
two,  and  probably  the  boy's  ruin  was  a  result,  for 
his  mother  was  fond  to  folly,  and  no  one  opposed 
his  will.  He  went  to  Westminster  and  Harrow, 
being  expelled  from  both,  and  came  of  age  to 
£60,000  in  ready  money  and  an  income  of  £10,000. 
For  a  short  time  he  was  a  cornet  in  the  7th  Hussars, 
but  on  his  majority  he  resigned,  and  took  to 
country  pursuits.  It  was  in  1819  that  he  brought 
himself  to  sit  in  Parliament  for  half  an  hour  ;  in 
1820  came  the  dissolution,  and  he  legislated  no 
more.  He  married  twice — his  first  wife  died,  and 
his  second  left  him.  His  hounds,  his  racehorses, 
his  cellars,  his  coverts,  and  his  friends  all  did  their 
work,  and  by  1 830  he  was  a  debtor  in  hiding  in 
Calais.  In  1834-  he  was  dead  of  delirium  tremens 
in  the  King's  Bench  Prison.  He  was  buried  in 
93 


'•  Nimrod's  "  Tribute 

the  private  chapel  of  his  old  hoinC;,  and  his  funeral 
was  attended  by  half  Shroi)shire,  for  the  country- 
people  idolised  him.  His  life  was  written  by  his 
friend  "  Nimrod/'  who  also  had  come  u})on  disaster, 
although  not  so  luridly,  and  was  also  a  refugee  at 
Calais.  It  is  a  curious,  warm-hearted,  tolerant 
book,  unique  in  the  language — the  kindest 
biography  that  a  rake-hell  ever  had,  and  a 
wonderful  memorial  of  the  three-bottle  days  that 
are  past.  Now  and  then  the  gallant  ^^  Nimrod  " 
sweats  something  very  like  blood  in  his  efforts  to 
palliate  his  friend's  enormities,  but  he  almost 
succeeds. 

Mytton,  looked  at  from  one  point  of  view,  was 
just  a  criminal  detrimental,  wickedly  selHsh, 
shamelessly  wasteful.  That  is  true  enough. 
But  he  rose  to  such  heights  in  this  wastefulness, 
and  he  gave  himself  to  folly  with  such  generous 
abandon,  that  he  compels  admiration.  His  follies, 
indeed,  were  (as  often  haj)})ens)  largely  runaway 
virtues,  liravery  in  the  hands  of  a  young  fool 
(piickly  becomes  recklessness  ;  generosity  turns 
to  extravagance ;  convJN  iality  degenerates  into 
drunkenness.  Mytton  liad  none  of  the  jutty 
vices,  the  dirty  little  mean  self-protective 
thoughts  that  seem  to  be  consistent  with  the 
highest  reputations.  lie  was  oj)cn  and  without 
anii're pcnsh'.  Having  well  thrashed  an  oj)})onent, 
94      • 


Aiken's  Aquatints 

he  gave  him  (as  I  have  said)  a  guinea.  With 
more  judgment  he  \vould  have  been  a  great 
country  gentleman.  Instead,  he  is  perhaps  the 
biggest  madcap  fool  in  English  history. 

He  Mas  certainly  the  only  one  whose  life  Avas 
published  with  aquatints  by  Aiken  and  Kawlins. 
Those  aquatints — how  well  I  remember  them  ! 
I  saw  the  book  first — where,  I  forget  now — when 
I  was  quite  a  child,  and  some  of  the  pictures 
burned  their  way  into  my  memory.  John  Mytton 
returning  from  Doncaster  races  in  a  chaise  with 
the  windows  open — I  should  remember  that 
nightpiece  for  ever,  even  if  in  counting  his 
winnings  he  was  not  amused  to  see  the  wind  catch 
the  banknotes  and  whirl  them  into  the  void. 
John  Mytton  riding  his  bear  into  the  drawing- 
room,  to  the  consternation  of  his  guests.  Who 
that  first  saw  that  picture  in  childhood  could 
ever  forget  it  ?  Mytton  was  very  amusing  m  ith 
this  bear,  and  once,  after  making  George 
Underbill,  the  horse-dealer,  exceedingly  drunk, 
he  put  him  to  bed  with  it  and  two  bulldogs. 
(He  had  an  inexhaustibly  pretty  fancy.)  John 
Mytton  forcing  the  leader  of  his  tandem  to  jump 
a  gate,  but  being  foiled  by  the  wheeler.  John 
Mytton  shooting  ducks  on  the  ice  under  the 
moon,  crawling  after  them  in  nothing  but  his 
night-shirt,  gun  in  hand.  John  Mytton  setting 
95 


*' Never  upset  in  a  Gig?" 

this  same  ni^ht-shirt,  or  aiiotlier,  on  fire  to  cure 
the  hiccoiiirhs. 

And  lastly,  the  si)irite(l  picture  of  the  famous 
incident  of  the  jj^uest  and  the  gig,  by  which,  in 
many  persons'  minds,  Mytton  lives.  ''  Was  3'ou 
ever  much  hurt  of  being  upset  in  a  gig  ?  "  asks 
the  genial  John  of  a  friend  whom  he  is  driving 
in  one  of  those  vehicles.  ''No,  thank  Clod," 
says  the  unsuspecting  man,  forgetting  with  whom 
he  had  to  deal,  ''^  for  I  never  was  u})set  in  one.  " 
"  What,"  replied  Mytton,  "  never  upset  in  a  gig.'* 
What  a  damned  slow  fellow  you  must  have  been 
all  your  life!"  and,  "running  his  near  wheel  up 
the  bank,  over  they  both  went."  The  story 
contains  John  Mytton's  greatness.  The  superb 
foolhardiness  of  it ;  the  excellent  bonhomie  of  it ; 
the  swiftness  of  the  catastrophe^  impulse  and 
action  being  one  ;  the  recklessness  not  only  of 
his  own  life,  but  his  friend's,  for  the  prosperity 
of  the  joke  : — these  would  be  impossible  to  a 
small  man. 

Had  Mytton  been  a  soldier,  with  such  a  disre- 
gard of  danger  and  rapidity  of  thought  and  deed, 
his  monument  might  l)e  at  this  moment  in  St. 
Paul's  Cathedral  and  his  statue  in  Trafalgar  Scjuare 
— and  he  no  dillerent  in  character.  Ihit  fate 
designed  that  lie  should  scjuander  his  gifts  and  do 
no  one  the  faintest  service.      More,  it  was  admitted 

96 


A  Nut  for  Optimists 

by  his  biographer  that  Mytton  was  drunk  for  seven 
years  on  end^  a  term  extended  to  twelve  years  by 
another  witness.  There  is  here  a  waste  of  power 
and  a  perversion  of  fine,  generous  instincts  that 
I  leave  to  Dr.  Pangloss  and  other  apologists  for 
this  universe  to  explain  away. 


97 


Our  Gardeners  and  Luck  of  the  Woods 


I 


SAY  "our  gardeners,"  but  it  is  a  misnomer. 
I  believe  that,  strictly  speaking,  we  have 
never  had  a  gardenei'  at  all.  We  have  had  only 
substitutes,  understudies,  "  supplies."  A  gardener, 
I  am  told,  before  you  can  rightly  call  him  "  your 
gardener,"  must  be  in  your  service  only  ;  whereas 
our  gardeners  have  been  independent  men  whom 
gold  has  for  a  while  bribed  into  spending  a  few 
of  their  hours  each  week  on  our  soil,  and  that 
only  irregularly,  and  who  have  instantly  thrown  us 
over  when  anything  better  offered. 

However,  let  it  pass.  Our  gardeners  they 
shall  be  called. 

We  have  had  so  many  that  1  forget  tluir 
order  ;  but  let  us  begin  with  Banks.  Banks  was 
an  old,  cheery  man  with  a  short  white  beard — a 
widower,  who  lived  all  alone  in  a  tiny  cottage 
that  might  have  been  inhabited  by  a  witch  in  a 
lairy  talc.      Once  I  went  to  see  him  there — wlun 

98 


The  Verb  "to  Brish" 

he  was  ill  with  jaunders  (as  he  called  them),  and 
found  him  in  bed  as  yellow  as  a  dandelion.  You 
have  no  idea  how  funny  an  old  yellow  gardener 
in  bed  can  look.  Banks  was  a  good  workman, 
and  a  very  kindly  personage  to  have  about  the 
place,  and  he  would  have  become  our  real 
gardener,  I  think,  had  it  not  been  for  an  act  of 
folly  on  his  own  part  which  removed  him  from 
our  neighbourhood  for  ever.  His  exit  was 
dramatic,  for  one  morning  he  was  sent  into  the 
village  to  buy  some  cord,  and  he  was  not  heard  oF 
again  for  six  weeks,  and  then  he  was  in  a  distant 
town,  with  his  only  son,  and  was  not  in  his  right 
mind.  And  when  the. truth  came  out  the  case 
was  harder  than  ever.  To  think  that  Cupid 
should  have  had  an  eye  to  that  odd  little  old 
man  !  But  he  had,  and  the  odd  little  old  man 
fell — rather  heavily — and  he  was  seen  no  more. 
By  Heaven's  mercy  the  baby  died. 

That  was  the  end  of  Banks,  and  no  more  did 
he  brighten  our  garden  with  his  merry  old  face 
and  delight  our  ears  with  his  odd  words,  of  which 
the  verb  "  to  brish"  was  by  no  means  the  last — 
to  brish  being  something  midway  between  really 
cutting  a  hedge  and  just  looking  at  it. 

After  Banks  came,  I  think,  Rateman — or  was  it 
Thrupp  ?     No,  Rateman.     Rateman  was  younger 
and  more  energetic  than  Banks,  but  not  so  good. 
99 


Rateman  and  Banks 

He  dashed  at  his  Avork,  and  made  vast  superficial 
differences  to  the  place  ;  but  it  Avas  not  thorough 
work.  He  never  trenched  two  spits  deep  in  liis 
life,  and  never  will  ;  whereas  Banks  would  not 
have  slept  if  he  had  done  less  where  it  was 
needed.  Rateman  wanted  to  cut  down  trees  and 
move  mountains,  while  Banks  was  content  to 
help  Nature  do  her  gentle,  gradual  will.  Another 
difference  between  llateman  and  Banks  was  that 
whereas  Banks  always  had  money,  Rateman 
always  wanted  it.  I  have  borrowed  money  from 
Banks,  but  Rateman  still  owes  me  two  shillings. 
It  was  immediately  after  acquiring  that  sum  that 
he  left. 

Peters  came  next.  Peters  was  by  profession  a 
poacher,  but  he  affected  gardening  as  a  blind  to 
the  })olice.  He  yawned  most  of  the  day  from 
want  of  sleep,  and  yet  worked  too,  and  not  at  all 
badly.  Peters  had  the  artistic  temperament,  and 
our  garden,  in  which  are  no  vegetables — nothing 
but  flowers  and  shrubs  and  odd  levels  and  nuieh 
stonework — pleased  him  and  drew  out  his  fancy. 
We  lost  Peters  only  because  the  iron  hand  of 
circumstances  caused  him  to  move. 

Then  came  our  greatest  failure — a  decrepit  old 
man  with  the  horrible  name  of  Crossbones. 
Those  other  men  had  all  done  something,  even  if 
it  were  not  what  we  wanted  done  ;  but  rrossl)ones 

lOO 


Crossbones  and  Thrupp 

did  nothing  but  })atient  and  ineffectual  hoeing. 
He  had  a  stock  phrase  with  which  to  meet  all 
suggestions :  "  I've  never  done  that  hi  gennle- 
men's  places/'  his  illusion  being  that  he  had 
spent  a  protracted  lifetime  as  the  honoured 
gardener  of  this  and  that  aristocrat.  For  all  I 
know  to  the  contrary^  he  may  have  done  so ;  but 
he  gave  us  none  of  the  benefit  of  his  career.  As 
the  leisurely  disturber  of  the  topmost  soil  of 
a  '^gennleman's  place"  he  was  perfection;  but 
beyond  that  he  was  useless.      He  quickly  went. 

Thrupj),  who  succeeded,  plunged  us  into 
difficulties^  as  you  will  see.  Thrupp  was  a  strong 
man  of  powerful  will,  with  a  contempt  for  his 
employers.  No  matter  what  he  was  told,  he  did 
only  what  he  thought  right.  For  he  looked  upon 
himself  as  one  who  could  make  no  mistake,  and 
his  standard  was  the  wonderful  plot  of  land 
behind  his  own  cottage,  of  whose  fruitfulness  and 
docility  he  was  never  tired  of  telling  us.  There 
was  nothing  this  garden  did  not  bring  forth — its 
soil  was  everything  it  should  be,  short  of 
auriferous.  Thrupp  took  no  stock  in  Bowers,  and 
at  last,  by  dangling  before  our  eyes  a  promise  of 
some  such  fecundity  as  his  own  being  persuaded 
by  his  gifted  hands  to  grace  a  piece  of  our  land, 
he  induced  us  to  allow  him  to  turn  lialf  the 
orchard  into  a  vegetable  patch.      But  nothing  was 

lOI 


A  Terrified  Employer 

ever  grown  tliere  but  crowsfoot — plenty  of  it— 
and  nettles  that  sting  most  infernally  when  one 
goes  to  pick  up  walnuts  and  apples.  I  knew  in 
my  heart  that  this  would  be  so  ;  but  Thrupp  was 
master.  How  he  came  to  leave  us  we  have  no 
real  knowledge ;  but  I  am  sure  he  never  received 
notice,  because  I  am  sure  we  should  never  have 
had  the  courage  to  give  it — having  no  telephone. 
But  vanish  he  did^  and  very  characteristically  ;  and 
since  we  did  not  know  whether  he  had  left  or 
not,  and  as  we  were  terrified  by  what  might 
happen  if  we  engaged  another  man  and  Thruj)p 
was  only  resting,  we  were  for  several  weeks 
without  any  help  at  all.  I  sent  out  scouts  to 
learn  what  he  was  doing,  but  could  get  no  real 
information.  They  could  not  definitely  report 
that  he  was  in  another  situation.  I  wrote  him 
j)ostcards,  but  he  did  not  answer.  1  would  have 
called  but  for  want  of  courage  and  his  eye.  .  .  . 
'J'hat  cold  eye.  .   .  . 

I  forget  who  came  next,  but  there  were  several 
stoj)-gaps  before  Coward  ap})eared,  one  of  whom, 
I  remember,  advised  me  to  pay  a  shilling  or  two 
more  the  next  time  I  bought  a  sj^iide  ;  and  another 
carefully  pulled  up  some  scores  of  cherished 
seedlings  under  the  imjiression  that  they  were 
weeds.  And  then  the  millenniinn  dawned  ;  for, 
taking  everything  into  consideration.  Coward  (who 

102 


The  Pen  runs  away 

is  still  with  us)  is  the  most  successful  man  we  have 
had,  for  he  works  well,  obeys  instructions,  dis- 
tinguishes between  weeds  and  seedlings,  is  willing 
to  do  anything  else  if  need  be,  has  no  dignity  to 
incommode  him,  and  does  not  talk  unless  he  is 
spoken  to.  Also  he  is  without  theories,  and 
breeds  rather  good  ducks.  His  drawback  is  a 
fondness  for  golf  (he  is  a  local  champion),  which 
deprives  us  of  his  services  far  too  often.  When 
he  is  most  wanted  here,  he  is  on  the  links. 

One  peculiarity  of  Cow^ard's  is  perhaps  worth 
mentioning.  Although  very  strong,  he  has  the 
thinnest  arms  I  ever  saw  on  anyone  but  a  premiere 
danseiise — thinner  even  than  hers,  maybe,  for  I  sus- 
pect that  much  of  the  thinness  of  Genee's  arms, 
for  example,  is  illusory,  proceeding  from  the  con- 
trast between  them  and  her  exceedingly  sturdy 
legs.  Such  legs  !  Have  you  ever  seen  Genee  ?  Half 
fairy,  half  kitten,  and  wholly  adorable.  But  we 
are  talking  about  gardeners.  Coward's  arms,  as 
I  say,  for  all  his  power,  are  thin  as  hop-poles.  But 
his  most  interesting  characteristic  is  his  wayside 
fortune — he  has  what  I  will  call  the  luck  of  the 
woods.  If  anything  curious  or  untoward  is  afoot. 
Coward  is  there  ;  if  rara  aves  are  seen  by  anyone, 
the  eyes  are  Coward's.  ^ 

The    other    Sunday,    Cor   example,    I     had    an 
appointment  with    him ;   and    as    it  was   Sunday 
103 


The  Woodcock 

afternoon,  he  had  on  liis  best  clothes,  and  I 
noticed  that  not  only  his  light  grey  suit,  but 
also  liis  dark  grey  overcoat,  were  those  which 
I  had  given  him  a  few  months  ago,  and  once 
again  I  wondered  why  one  can  ever  be  so  foolish 
as  to  give  away  such  valuable  and  irreplaceable 
things  as  old  clothes. 

Well,  we  talked  for  some  time — an  hour — on 
the  matter  in  hand,  and  then  he  turned  to  go 
(he  lives  two  miles  away,  across  the  common), 
but  swinging  round  again,  he  remarked  casually, 
"  I  picked  up  a  woodcock  as  I  came  along." 
"  Yes,"  I  said  tentatively,  expecting  that  he  was 
proposing  to  hand  it  to  me  as  an  offering  to  the 
table,  and  wondering  what  it  had  died  of. 
"  Rather  a  good  one,"  he  added,  and,  throwing 
open  his  coat — my  coat — revealed  the  head  and 
three  inches  of  bill  of  a  large  woodcock  pro- 
truding from  an  inside  pocket :  to  my  astonishment 
intensely  alive.  Its  sparkling  black  eyes  looked 
at  me  with  a  steady  incjuisitiveness,  but  no  fear. 
Coward  pulled  it  forth,  (juite  naturally  and  easily, 
as  if  live  woodcocks  were  liis  normal  cargo,  and 
began  to  stroke  its  head  as  affectionately  and  gently 
as  if  the  soul  of  his  grandam  had  really  taken  up 
its  habitation  therein  ;  and  the  bird  accej)ted  the 
attention  (juietly  and,  to  all  ai)pearance,  happily. 
I  was  then  told  that  it  had  a  broken  wing ;  was 
104 


A  Birthright 

probably  shot  the  clay  before  ;  and  was  now  on 
its  way  to  the  keeper's.  The  bird  was  then 
put  back  into  the  pocket — my  pocket — again, 
and  its  captor  walked  off,  leaving  me  all  amused 
perplexity. 

I  was  not  only  perplexed  and  amused  ;  1  was 
sad  too.  I  had  a  sense  of  failure.  For  a  large 
part  of  the  force  of  this  anecdote  is  that  that 
overcoat  was  no  longer  mine.  So  long  as  I 
owned  it  and  wore  it,  nothing  ever  got  into  its 
pockets  but  such  dull  and  normal  articles  as  pipes 
and  pouches  and  gloves.  But  no  sooner  had 
I  given  it  away  than  one  of  the  shyest  and 
strongest  of  British  birds  found  its  way  there 
quite  naturally. 

The  reason  is,  of  course,  not  only  that  the 
coat  had  ceased  to  be  mine,  but  that  I  had 
given  it  to  a  man  eminent  among  those  who 
have  the  luck  of  the  woods.  Such  luck  cannot 
be  acquired  ;  you  have  it  or  you  have  it  not,  like 
the  ars  poelica  or  a  caul.  No  matter  how  iy«^ 
you  want  it,  you  cannot  get  it.  A  man  who  has 
it  not  may  spend  his  whole  life  in  the  country 
and  never  even  come  across  a  blind- worm  ;  a  man 
who  has  it  may  live  all  his  life  in  Bloomsbury, 
and  one  day  visiting  Epping  Forest  find  a 
cuckoo's  e^x^f^  in  a  robin's  nest. 

I  don't    say  I  am    totally  without   it,  because 
105 


Shadow  without  Substance 

I  was  once  witli  a  man  who  lias  it  strongly,  and 
saw  a  pigeon  attacked  in  mid-air  by  a  hen-harrier 
and  killed  ;  and  it  fell  near  us,  and  turned  out 
to  be  a  carrier  pigeon  with  a  message  under  its 
wing  and  a  registered  number,  which  led  to  an 
interesting  correspondence.  This  shows  that 
I  am  not  wholly  destitute  of  such  luck,  because 
if  I  were  I  should  not  have  been  walking  with 
that  man.  Ikit  I  do  not  possess  more  than  a 
glimmering,  although  I  once  found  a  black  snake 
wriggling  across  Great  Portland  Street  at  eleven 
o'clock  on  a  Sunday  night,  and  killed  it  Mith 
a  ground  ash  ;  and  although  one  Sunday  morning 
three  years  ago  I  was  confronted  suddenly  by 
a  young  owl  on  a  juni})er  bush,  and  it  allowed 
me  to  take  it  in  my  arms.  But  these  experiences 
are  exceptions,  ))roving  no  rule.  The  man  who 
has  the  luck  of  the  woods  always  has  it,  like  my 
gardener  friend,  to  whom  gravitate,  by  a  kind 
of  natural  law,  all  creatures  in  distress,  and 
before  whose  eyes  are  unfolded  the  most  inter- 
esting dramas  that  the  English  fauna  can  Jilay. 
.Such  men  have  the  key  of  the  countryside. 

As  I  say,  we  had  been  talking  for  an  hour 
before  he  showed  me  his  treasure-trove.  Hero 
came  out  tiie  dirtercnce  between  us — between 
a  man  who  has  the  luck  of  the  woods  and  a 
man  who  has  it  not  ;  because,  had  I  chanced  on 
io6 


The  Enviable  Men 

a  woodcock  uith  a  broken  wing,  I  shoukl  in  the 
first  place  never  have  thought  of  packing  it  in  my 
pocket,  and,  in  the  second  place,  it  would  have 
been  the  first  thing  I  should  have  spoken  of  on 
meeting  an  acquaintance. 

Those  who  possess  the  luck  of  the  woods,  the 
key  of  the  countryside,  are  very  enviable.  To 
me  they  are  more  enviable  than  any  other  men 
— more  enviable  even  than  conjurers. 


107 


Conjurer  and  Confederate      ^'        ^        ^:^ 

1.     TllK     CONJLHKH 

\  MBITION  takes  men  very  differently,  'lliis 
^  would  enter  Parliament,  and  That  would  have 
a  i)lay  accepted  at  the  Court  ;  This  would  reach 
the  North  Pole,  and  That  would  live  at  Chisle- 
hurst  ;  while  a  fifth  would  be  happy  if  only  he 
had  a  motor-car.  Speaking  for  myself,  my  am- 
l)ition  has  always  been  to  have  a  conjurer  perform 
under  my  own  roof,  and  it  has  just  haj)j)ened. 
I  obtained  him  from  the  Stores. 

No  one,  I  su})pose,  will  be  taken  in  hv  the 
statement  that  I  was  engaging  this  wizard  for  the 
children  ;  it  was  really  for  myself.  Much  as  the 
children  enjoyed  his  tricks  and  liis  banter  (so 
fascinating,  as  one  of  his  testimonials  said,  to  the 

family    of  the  Countess  of  ),  it   was    I   who 

enjoyed  him  most,  because  I   hel|)ed  him  with  his 

j)reparations  ;  saw  liim  unj)ack  his  wonderlul  bags 

and  lay  tlie  sacred  paraphernalia    on  the    table  ; 

1 08 


The  Three  Desired  Tricks 

procured  for  him  such  articles  as  he  required  ;  and 
so  forth.  I  have  never  been  so  near  magic  before. 
Like  all  great  men  when  one  comes  closely  in 
touch  with  them,  he  was  quite  human,  quite 
like  ourselves :  so  m.  :h  so,  indeed,  that  in  addi- 
tion to  his  fee  he  wai:ted  his  cab  fare  both  ways. 
It  is  very  human  to  want  things  both  ways. 

I  have  been  wondering  how  long  it  would  take 
me  to  learn  to  be  a  conjurer,  and  if  it  is  not  too 
late  to  begin.     I    used  to    meditate  a  course  of 
billiard  lessons  from  one  of  the  great  players,  but 
I  gave  that  up  long  ago.     I  realised  that  a  man 
who  wants  to  play  billiards  must  have  no  other 
ambition.       Billiards    is     all.       But    one    might 
surely  in  the   course   of  a  winter  acquire  some- 
thing more  than  the  rudiments  of  conjuring,  and 
I  would  pay  a  guinea  a  lesson  with  pleasure.      I 
don't  want  to  be  a  finished  conjurer.      I  merely 
want  to  do  three  tricks  with  reasonable  dexterity. 
Of  course,  if  one  can  do  three  tricks  one  can  do 
thirty,  but  it  is  three  and  three  only  I  have  in 
mind.     (1)  I  want  to  borrow  a  watch  and  put  it 
in  a  pestle  and  mortar  and  grind  it  to  powder, 
and  then  fire  a  pistol  at  a  loaf  of  bread  and  find 
the  watch  whole  again  in  the  midst  of  the  crumb. 
(2)  I  want  to  borrow  a  tall  hat  and  throw  in  flour, 
and  break  eggs  into  it  and  stir  it  all  up,  and  hold 
it  over  a  spirit  lamp  for  a  second,  and  then  pro- 
109 


Consummation 

(luce  a  beautiful  warm  cake.  (3)  I  want  to  find 
hens'  eggs  in  old  men's  beards  and  little  girls' 
hair.  Tricks  with  cards  and  money  and  so  forth 
I  don't  mind  about,  because  I  would  always  rather 
see  them  done  than  do  them  —  there  is  such 
fascination  in  the  clean,  swift  movements  of  the 
conjurer  with  cards,  his  perfect  mastery  of  his 
fingers,  the  supple  beauty  of  his  hands.  And 
tricks  with  machinery  I  would  gladly  forego. 

My  conjurer's  most  popular  trick  was  of  course 
that  which  calls  upon  the  co-operation  of  a  rabbit. 
I  wrote  to  him  in  advance  to  insist  on  this.     No 
man    who    at   a  children's  party  produces  a  live 
rabbit,    particularly    when    it    is    very   small  and 
kicking  and   also  black  and   white,  is  making  a 
mistake.     No  matter  what  has  gone  before,  this 
aj)parition    will    seal     his    popularity.     The  end 
crowns  the  work  (as  I  could  say  in  Latin  if  I  liked). 
It  was  not  only  to  the  children  that  this  trick  was 
welcome,    but    to    an    elderly    literary  friend    of 
mine,  with  whom   I   have  collaborated   more  than 
once,  and  into  whose  life  I  hoped  to  get  a  little 
brightness  l)y  inducing  him  to  bring  the  tall  hat 
wliich  the  wizard    should  borrow.     The  thought 
filled  him  with  excitement.      It  was  bringing  radi- 
ance indeed  into  his  life  to  know  that  this  old  hat, 
which  had  done  nothing  more  romantic  than  keep 
his  head  warm  all   these  vears,  was  to  be  used  for 


The   Perfect  Life 

magical  purposes,  and  have  a  real  rabbit  extracted 
from  it. 

As  M-ith  pensive  melancholy  I  watched  the 
conjurer  packing  up,  he  told  me  that  he  had  two 
more  performances  that  evening,  and  had  been  in 
constant  request  (I  think  I  give  his  exact  words) 
all  through  the  winter  months.  What  a  life  !  I 
can  think  of  nothing  more  pleasant  than  to  live 
thus,  continually  mystifying  fresh  groups  of  people 
— with  cab  fares  both  ways  and  a  satisfactory  fee  : 
to  be  for  ever  in  the  winter  months  extracting 
eggs  from  old  gentlemen's  beards  and  little  girls' 
hair,  passing^cards  right  through  one's  body, 
catching  half-crowns  in  the  air,  finding  a  thousand 
and  one  things  in  tall  hats.  This  is  to  live  indeed, 
to  say  nothing  of  the  additional  rapture  of  having 
a  fund  of  facetiae  that  not  only  ordinary  children 
but  the  offspring  of  countesses  find  irresistible. 

And  in  the  summer  months  what  does  he  do } 
Probably  he  is  thinking  out  new  tricks,  squander- 
ing his  winter  wealth  (the  very  reverse  of  the  bee), 
catchino;  rabbits. 


II.    THE    CONFEDERATE 

''  My  mother  has  told  me  of  fields,  meadows, 
and  hedges  ;  but  I  have  never  seen  them.  She 
has  told  me  also  of  guns,  and  dogs,  and  ferrets, 


"  I   mean  to  keep  small  " 

and  all  the  perils  of  the  warren  lite  ;  but  of  these 
1  know  nothing  too.  It  is  very  unlikely  that  1 
ever  shall ;  for  I  am  in  love  with  my  art,  and 
will  not  abandon  it  until  I  must.  My  mother 
says  1  must  before  very  long,  because  I  am 
growing  so  fast ;  but  1  mean  to  keep  small.  1 
shall  eat  very  little ;  I  eat  hardly  anything  now. 
1  couldn't  bear  to  change  this  wonderful  career. 

"  This  is  my  second  winter,  and  I  go  into  his 
pocket  quite  easily  still.  Why  should  everyone 
grow  big  }  There  are  dwarf  men  ;  \\  hy  not  dwarf 
rabbits  ? 

"  My  mother  says  that  when  I  am  too  big  I 
shall  just  live  in  a  hutch  all  day  and  see  no  one. 
But  I  would  not  do  that ;  I  would  die  sooner. 
It  is  very  easy  to  die  if  you  want  to. 

"  What  sort  of  a  life  do  you  think  1  should 
have  if  I  could  not  helj)  my  master,  and  knc/r  (hat 
anullicr  was  helping  him  instead  ?  That  would  be 
the  terrible  part.  Once  it  happened  to  me,  when 
I  was  ill  and  my  brother  went  to  a  party  for  me. 
I  suffered  agonies  all  the  evening.  I  seemed  to 
hear  the  children  laiigliing,  and  see  them  all 
open-mouthed  with  amazement  and  ra])ture  when 
he  was  pulled  kicking  out  of  the  empty  hat.  It  was 
terrible.  I  lay  there  sobbing  and  biting  my  claws. 
But  it  was  all  right  when  he  came  back,  for  I 
heard  my  master  saying  to  his  wife   that  Tommtf 

I  12 


'*I  hear  them  lauo^h  all  the  time" 

D 

(that  is  my  brother's  name)  was  a  fool.  "  Too 
heavy,  too/'  he  added,  and  then  he  brouglit  me, 
with  his  own  hands,  a  new  crisp  lettuce  to  see  if 
I  could  eat  again,  and  I  ate  it  all,  and  have  never 
been  ill  since. 

"  I  daresay  if  I  was  an  ordinary  stage  conjurer's 
rabbit  I  could  bear  old  age  better.  But  we  do 
not  do  that,  we  go  to  children's  parties.  There 
is  all  the  difference  in  the  world. 

"  You  have  no  idea  how  many  children  I  see. 
And  to  hear  them  laugh ;  that  is  the  best !  I 
hear  them  laugh  all  the  time,  but  I  see  them  only 
for  a  minute  or  two.  You  must  understand  that 
until  my  trick  comes  on — and  it  is  usually  a  late 
one — I  lie  all  comfortable,  although  quivering 
with  excitement,  in  my  basket.  I  can't  see,  but 
I  can  hear  everything.  Of  course  I  know  exactly 
what  is  happening,  although  I  can't  see  it.  I 
know  the  order  of  the  tricks  perfectly.  Now  he's 
catching  money  in  the  air,  I  say  to  myself.  Now 
he's  finding  an  t^g  in  a  little  girl's  hair.  Now 
he's  passing  cards  through  his  body  ;  and  so  on. 
And  then  comes  the  great  moment  when  1  hear 
him  say,  ^For  my  next  trick  I  shall  require  the 
loan  of  a  hat.  Can  anyone  oblige  me  with  a  tall 
hat.''  As  this  is  a  rather  messy  trick,  I  don't  care 
to  use  my  own.'  They  always  laugh  at  that ;  but 
they  little  think  what  those  words  are  meaning 
H  113 


"Very  odd  things  In  your  Hat" 

to  a  small  black  rabbit  in  a  basket,  and  liow  my 
heart  is  beating. 

"Then  the  trick  begins:  first  my  master  takes 
out  of  the  hat  a  great  bunch  of  flags,  then  heaps 
of  flowers,  then  Jaj^anese  lanterns,  and  then  a 
wig.  I  must  not  tell  you  how  this  is  done,  but 
I  know  ;  and  I  must  not  tell  you  how  or  when  I 
am  put  into  the  hat,  because  that  might  lead  you 
to  think  less  of  my  master's  magic  ;  but  after  the 
wig  has  been  taken  out  and  they  are  all  1  lughing, 
there  is  a  moment  .  .  .  Then  my  heart  seems  to 
stand  quite  still.  Wiien  I  come  to  myself  I  hear 
my  master  say,  '  Excuse  me,  sir,  but  you  carry 
very  odd  things  in  your  hat.  I  thought  the  wig 
was  the  last  of  them  ;  but  here  is  one  more.'  I 
cannot  see  the  children,  but  I  know  exactly  how 
they  are  looking  while  he  says  this — all  leaning 
forward,  with  their  mouths  open  and  tluir  eyes 
so  bright.  And  then  my  master  takes  hold  of 
my  ears,  })ulls  me  uj)  with  a  swift  movement 
wliicli  hurls  a  little,  but  I  don't  mind  (mind!), 
and  waves  me  in  the  air.  How  I  kick,  how  they 
scream  with  delight !  '  Oh,  the  little  darling  !  * 
they  cry.     '  Oh,  the  sweet ! '     '  The  pet  I ' 

"  How  could  I  give  this  up?  What  has  life  for 
me  without  my  art  .- 

"Sometimes  when  we  are  performing  in  a  small 
house  ^^  here  there  is  no  ])latform,  the  little  girls 
1  14 


"  A  good  deal  squeezed  " 

make  a  rush  for  me  and  seize  me  from  my  master 
and  hug  me  and  kiss  me.  I  have  been  a  good 
deal  squeezed  now  and  then  ;  but  I  know  it  is 
because  I  have  done  well.  If  I  had  not  kicked 
so  bravely  they  would  not  be  so  eager  to  hold  me 
and  love  me.  It  is  homage  to  art.  But  my 
master  soon  takes  me  from  them  and  puts  me  in 
my  basket  again.  I  am  afraid  he  has  rather  a 
jealous  disposition." 


1^5 


Sister  Lucie  Vinken     <^        ^^        -^        <:> 

f^  HENT  has  many  treasures,  first  of  which  1 
^^  su})pose  is  that  chai^el  at  St.  Bavo's  which 
holds  enshrined  ^' Tlie  Adoration  of  the  Lamb," 
by  Jan  and  Hubert  \'an  Kyck  ;  but  looking  back 
on  it  I  remember  with  most  vividness  not  its 
paintings  or  its  churches,  not  its  canals  or  its 
Hotel  de  Ville,  not  its  streets  or  its  ruined  castle, 
but  Sister  Lucie  Vinken  of  the  Convent  of  St. 
Joseph  in  the  Petit  Beguinage  Notre  Dame. 

We  came  to  her  by  a  kind  of  accident, — if 
accident  there  be,  as  I  like  to  question.  It  was 
the  (J rand  Bcguinage  tiiat  we  had  set  out  to  see, 
in  one  of  those  Belgian  //V/c/c.v  which,  whether 
you  will  or  not,  force  you  back  to  an  angle  ot 
insolent  disdain.  But  tiic  driver  had  his  own 
opinion,  and  before  we  knew  it  wi-  were  within 
the  gates  of  the  older  and  smaller  but  far  nu)re 
adjacent  retreat,  and  I  have  since  leanu-d  that  in 
other  respi-ets  also  we  did  well,  for  the  (irand 
ll6 


All  sheer  Peter  De  Hooch 

Be<ruinage  outside  the  city^  although  very  fasci- 
nating in  its  self-contained  perfection,  with  its 
surrounding  wall  and  little  streets  and  squares 
and  moats  and  bridges — by  all  accounts  the  ideal 
home  for  a  children's  commonwealth — is  yet  new, 
dating  but  from  the  eighteen-seventies,  whereas 
the  Petit  Bcguinage  is  untouched  since  the 
eighteenth  century,  and  some  of  it  is  earlier  still ; 
and  to  go  to  Ghent  to  see  a  new  building  is  as 
absurd  as  to  go  to  Oxford  to  see  a  Board  school. 

The  driver  having  stopped  before  a  door  in  the 
wall  with  a  little  shrine  above  it,  the  door  opened 
and  Sister  Lucie  Mnken  straightway  became  our 
hostess.  She  stood  radiating  welcome  in  a  court- 
yard such  as  her  countryman  Peter  De  Hooch 
(for  Sister  Lucie  Vinken  is  Dutch)  would  have 
painted,  and  drew  us  in.  There  could  be  no 
holding  back,  however  militantly  Protestant  one's 
feelings  might  be,  for  Sister  Lucie  Vinken's 
Church  does  not  often  make  a  mistake,  and  she 
was  not  appointed  to  this  post  without  reason — 
so  charming  her  smile,  so  rosy  her  placid  round 
Dutch  face,  so  white  her  head-dress,  and  so  en- 
gagingly gentle  and  soothing  her  voice.  No.  233 
is  the  number  of  Sister  Lucie  Vinken's  house 
— all  sheer  Peter  De  Hooch  too  —  with  little 
bright  red  bricks,  and  white  frames  to  the 
windows,  and  cool  white  walls  and  tiny  dormers. 

IT7 


Lucie's  Misunderstanding 

The  others  are  like  it,  surrounding  their  great 
courtyard,  uhich  has  a  meadow  in  the  midst  to 
wliich  Iiave  strayed  from  tlieir  IVaiiies,  to  keep 
Peter  De  Hooch  in  countenance  these  late  days, 
lialf  a  dozen  of  Albert  Cuyp's  cows.  At  one  end 
is  the  church,  and  close  by  is  the  Convent  of  St. 
Joseph,  where  Sister  Lucie  \inken  dwells  and 
receives  the  curious.     Long  may  she  do  so ! 

Sister  Lucie  Vinken  led  us  first  into  the  re- 
fectory, where  each  rcligieuse  has  a  little  cu})board 
with  her  own  table  necessaries  in  it,  and  a  sliding 
slab  on  which  to  place  them  for  all  meals  but 
dinner,  which  is  taken  in  company  at  a  long 
table.  The  other  meals  are  taken  separately,  each 
sister  at  her  cupboard.  Then  we  went  upstairs, 
along  passages  with  sacred  engravings  on  the 
walls,  to  see  the  bedrooms,  all  of  which,  like 
the  houses,  are  dedicated  to  saints  ;  and  l)y  an 
odd  chance,  in  the  one  that  we  entered,  which 
was  Lucie  Vinken's  own,  very  small  and  clean 
and  holy,  in  one  of  the  drawers  was  a  })acket  of 
])icture  postcards  of  the  Beguinage — only  a  franc 
— and  by  another  chance  Lucie  Vinken  had  no 
change,  and  very  naturally  misunderstood  me  to 
say  that  it  was  of  no  importance  and  the  balance 
of  my  five-franc  piece  should  go  to  the  pannes. 
Lucie  Vinken  being  the  clever  woman  she  is, 
I  agreed  hastily  that  that  was  what  I  had  said. 
iiS 


For  my  Conversion 

And  then  she  enlarged  uj^on  the  pleasures  of  the 
life,  of  which  she  has  had  three  -  and  -  twenty 
years,  and  hoped  it  might  not  be  long  before 
we  were  members  of  the  same  broad  -  bosomed 
Church  ;  and  indeed  said  that  she  felt  it  so  much 
that  if  she  had  Madame's  permission  she  would 
pray  for  her  speedy  conversion  :  and  how  can 
one  say  "  No"  to  a  request  like  that  ?  And  then, 
drawing  Madame  aside,  she  asked  her  in  a 
whisper  if  Monsieur  would  resent  it  if  s'he  prayed 
also  for  him  ;  and  Madame  assured  her  he  would 
adore  it :  and  so  at  this  moment,  for  all  I  know. 
Sister  Lucie  Vinken  is  on  her  knees  drawing  me 
by  invisible  threads  nearer  and  nearer  to  the 
Eternal  City.  .  .  .  And  she  has  my  address  too, 
for  we  exchanged  cards,  quite  like  duellists,  and 
hers  lies  before  me  as  I  Avrite.  I  have  more  than 
that ;  for  I  have  her  photograph,  snap]ied  as  she 
stood  in  Peter  De  Hooch's  doorway  and  smiled 
adieu,  and  not  only  adieu  but  au-revoir,  as  we 
drove  away. 

But  I  go  too  fast.  For  it  was  in  her  little 
bedroom,  and  dallying  in  the  Avhite  passage 
among  the  sacred  prints,  and  hovering  on  the 
stairs  as  we  descended,  that  Sister  lAicie  \'inken 
told  us  all  about  these  Beguinages  and  their 
history :  how  they  were  founded  in  the  twelfth 
century ;  how  the  sisters  were  as  free  as  air  to 
119 


''To  adore  the  good  God" 

come  and  *r()  if  they  wished,  but  mostly  stayed, 
all  vowed  to  good  works  hut  not  irrevocably  to 
anything  else  —  teaching,  nursing,  sewing  and 
making  lace,  the  last  two  employments  being  so 
much  their  staple  occupation  as  to  determine  the 
time  of  vespers,  which  do  not  begin  in  ^\  inter  or 
summer  until  the  daylight  has  so  faded  as  to 
endanger  the  workers'  sight :  worshipping  always, 
with  little  if  any  less  assiduity  than  real  nuns 
who  have  taken  the  veil  once  and  for  all.  ''  We 
rise  at  half-past  four,"  she  said  in  her  quiet 
voice.  ^^  We  are  all  very  sleepy,  yes,  but  since  it 
is  to  adore  the  good  God  it  gives  us  pleasure," 
Beguinages,  Lucie  Vinken  added,  are  to  be  found 
in  the  other  chief  Belgian  towns — Louvain  has 
a  very  beautiful  one — but  Ghent  is  their  capital. 
Ghent  counts  her  Beguines  in  thousands :  the 
others  only  in  hundreds.      And  so  on. 

And  as  she  talked  I  found  myself  wondering 
if  the  Beguinage  could  ever  come  to  this  country, 
where  unemployed  unmarried  women  darken  the 
earth.  And  as  I  looked  out  of  a  window  and 
watched  the  quiet  figures  standing  alone  or  in 
com])any  at  their  gateways,  all  contented-looking 
and  ready  to  smile  in  an  unsmiling  country — for 
the  Belgian  face  is  hard — or  moving  about  by  the 
church  and  the  meadow,  talking  to  their  friends 
from  the  city,  playing  with  children  (which  they 

120 


Mary  and   Martha 

may  liave  to  stay  witli  them  it"  they  like),  and 
returning  from  sickbeds  and  other  kindly 
missions^  I  felt  that  many  a  single  English- 
woman might  do  worse  than  give  such  a  life  a 
trial.  To  have  the  privileges  and  virtues  of  the 
nun  and  be  no  nun — that  is,  perhaps,  to  come  as 
near  the  secret  at  any  rate  as  to  have  the  suffrage. 
And  so  by  gradual  stages  we  descended  to  a 
little  waiting-room  with  a  picture  by  the  great 
Otto  Van  Veen  (Rubens's  master,  as  every 
Belgian  sacristan  knows)  in  it :  a  picture  of  Christ 
in  the  house  of  Martha  and  Mary,  with  Mary  all 
adoration  at  His  feet,  and  a  table  groaning  be- 
neath a  Flemish  profusion  of  food — hares  and 
fowls  and  ducks  and  green  stuffs  and  joints  and 
all  the  riot  that  the  still-life  painters  rejoiced  in — 
and  poor  Martha  in  the  background  in  despair  at 
ever  reducing  such  chaos  to  an  orderly  hospitality 
without  some  help  from  her  sister.  Velasquez 
at  the  National  Gallery  gives  these  twain  a 
small  yet  sturdy  servant-maid,  but  not  so  Van 
Veen,  Rubens's  master.  Well,  in  this  room  was 
a  table  which  when  we  had  first  entered,  half  an 
hour  before,  was  empty,  but  was  now  covered 
with  lace  ;  and  by  it  stood  an  aged  sister  inviting 
us  to  buy.  And  buy  we  certainly  should  not,  had 
not  Sister  Lucie  Vinken  suggested  the  readiness 
of  the  Convent  to  take  a  cheque ;  and  so  we  went 

T21 


My  new  Ghent 

off  with  a  lace  scarf  for  which  I  wa^  to  send 
a  cheque  made  out  to  a  Lady  Superior  for 
twenty-eifyht  francs,  waving  farewells  and  calling 
out  ])roniises  to  return  whicli  I  hope  will  be 
fulfilled. 

And  now  for  me  Sister  Lucie  \'inken  stands 
and  will  stand  for  Ghent,  taking  the  j)laee  of  the 
galloping  Dirck  and  Joris  of  l^rowning's  poem, 
who  for  many  years,  before  I  set  foot  there,  had 
been  all  of  Ghent  that  I  had  in  mind — their 
hoofs  beating  in  my  head  like  a  drum  whenever 
the  city  was  mentioned.  But  their  day  is  past. 
Their  noisy  onset  is  over.  The  word  Ghent 
henceforward  will  call  forth  a  serene  and  ])ros}ier- 
ous  and  comfortable  cooing  lady  in  black  and 
white,  moving  softly  from  room  to  room  of  her 
spotless  female  monastery,  all  smiles  and  sym- 
pathy and  kindness  and  Rome.  Dirck,  Joris, 
and  their  sweating  steeds  have  no  })lace  here. 
Over  my  new  Ghent  broods  the  dove. 


122 


LIFE'S   LITTLE   DIFFICULTIES 


123 


1 

The  Wedding  Present 


From  the  Rev.  Wilson  Large  to  several  of  his 
parishioners,  inehiding  Ladi)  Fern,  Mrs.  Harri- 
son Hoot,  Miss  Callow,  Mrs.  Pollard,  Sir 
Anthony  Di.r,  Mr.  Horace  Sparrow,  and  Mr. 
Jack  Pyke-Luntin 

Dear  , — As  you  no  doubt  are  aware^,  our 

friend  and  neighbour,  Lord  Clumber,  after  a 
period  of  lonely  widowerhood,  is  about  to  enter 
again  into  the  bonds  of  wedlock,  with  Miss  Birdie 
Bangle,  and  it  has  been  thought  that,  in  addition 
to  any  little  gift  which  we  may  individually  be 
sending  to  him,  some  general  token  of  our  esteem 
and  our  desire  as  a  community  for  his  happiness 
would  be  timely  and  welcome.  I  write  to  you, 
as  to  several  others  of  the  leading  residents  in 
125 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 

the  neighbourhood,  to  ask  for  your  co-operation 
in  this  httle  sclieme,  and  for  your  views  as  to  the 
shape  Nvliich  the  testimonial  should  take.  My 
own  idea  is  a  timepiece,  witli  a  suitable  inscrip- 
tion on  a  silver  plate  beneath  the  dial. — Believe 
me,  yours  cordially,.  Wilson   Laugk 

n 

Mr.  Jach  Pifkc-Luutin  to  tJtc  Rev.  Ji'iLso/i  Large 

Dkak  LAiuiK, —  If  by  timepiece  you  mean 
clock,  I'm  on.  Of  course  old  Clum  has  clocks  to 
burn,  but  wrdding  presents  don't  count.  It's 
the  thought  behind  them.  Put  me  down  for  a 
sovereign,  and  if  I  can  hcli)  you  by  buying  the 
clock  when  I  go  to  town  next,  I  will  do  so  gladlv. 
But  you  must  give  me  all  instructions  very 
clearly. — ^  ours,  J.    Pvkk-Iantin 

III 

3//.V.V  CdUoN'  to  tin-  Rev.   II  tlson  Large 

Dkah  Mi{.  Lauc.i;, —  ^ Our  news  has  made  me  a 
new  woman.  1  have  been  very  ill  with  rheuma- 
tism and  gejieral  depression  for  so  long,  but  the 
thought  that  dear  Lord  Clumber  is  again  to  bi 
made  lia|)py  has  brightened  every  minute  since 
your  letter  eanie.      I  like  the  idea  of  the  clock — 

\2() 


The  Wedding  Present 

how  very  clever  of  you  !  Such  unsuitable  presents 
are  often  given  on  these,  to  me,  sacred  occa- 
sions, such  even  as  spirit  flasks  and  other  un- 
pleasantly material  things.  But  of  course  you,  with 
your  views  on  temperance,  would  not  have  per- 
mitted anything  like  that.  I  enclose  a  cheque  for 
Yours  sincerely  and  gratefully, 
Ellen  Callow 


Lad  If  Fern  to  the  Rev.  Wilson  Large 

Dear  Mr.  Large, — I  am  both  pained  and 
shocked  by  the  interest  you  are  taking  in  this 
unfortunate  marriage.  When  English  noblemen 
marry  dancing-girls  it  is  the  duty  of  the  clergy  to 
weep  rather  than  organise  wedding  presents. 
Your  scheme  will  receive  no  countenance  from 
me,  I  remember  poor  Lady  Clamber  far  too 
vividly.  Any  present  that  I  may  feel  disposed 
to  make  will  take  an  admonitory  form,  or  I  may 
possibly  send  a  copy  of  Lord  Avebury's  Pleasures 
of  Life.— Yours  sincerely,  Angela   Fern 


The  Rev.  Wilson  Large  to  Lady  Fern 
My  dear  Lady  Fern, — I  was  greatly  distressed 
to    find    that    your   attitude    to    Lord   Clumber's 
127 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 

engagement  is  so  hostile.  I  fear,  in  your  })erhaps 
natural  dislike  to  see  a  stranger  in  the  late 
Lady  Clumber's  i)lace,  you  have  been  betrayed 
into  a  slight  error.  You  say  a  "dancing-girl," 
but  I  understand  that  Miss  Bangle  s})oke  (juite  a 
luunber  of  words  in  the  last  i)lay  at  (I  think)  the 
Gaiety  Theatre,  and  by  some  of  the  leading 
critics  was  very  warmly  praised  for  her  imaginative 
treatment  of  the  part.  In  any  case,  1  doubt  if  we 
ought  to  condemn  dancing  qua  dancing.  We  have 
all  danced  a  little  in  our  time — I  used,  I  remem- 
ber, to  be  singularly  happy  in  Sir  Roger — and 
Miss  Bangle  may  be  a  very  worthy  person  in  spite 
of  her  calling.  It  is  enough  for  me  that  Lord 
Clumber  has  chosen  her. — I  am,  dear  Lady  Fern, 
vours  cordiallv,  Wilson   Large 


VI 

Sir  A)it]io)iji  Did'  to  the  Rev.  JVilsou  Large 

Dkau  Lahok, — It's  a  very  good  notion,  but  a 
clock  is  too  dull.  Birdie  won't  care  for  a  clock 
at  all:  not  unless  she's  very  ditlrrt-nt  from  what 
she  usetl  to  be.  A  motor-coat  would  be  nuich 
more  in  her  line,  or  a  tasty  fan.  I  saw  some 
beauties  thr  other  day  in  Hoiul  .stnet.  It's 
rather  a  joke  for  lur  to  ealeh  (hnnher:  and  a 
128 


The  Wedding  Present 

good  deal  of  a  change  for  him  after  the  late 
Lady  C.  I  enclose  a  cheque  for  two  pounds, 
anyway. — Yours  truly,  Anthony  Dix 


VII 

Mrs.  Harriaon  Hoot  to  the  Rev.  JVihon  Large 

Dear  Mr.  Large, —  I  cannot  find  that  anyone 
staying  in  this  Pension  knows  Miss  Bangle's 
name,  although  there  are  several  ladies  who 
seem  to  be  ardent  playgoers.  But  perhaps  she 
has  only  just  appeared  in  London.  Mr.  Benson, 
whom  I  know  slightly,  is  always  producing 
wonderful  new  Shakspearean  actresses,  and  I 
imagine  Miss  Bangle  to  be  one  of  these.  But 
what  an  odd  name  ! — Yours  sincerely, 

Grace  Harrison  Root 


VIII 

Mr.  Horace  Sparrow  to  the  Rev.  Wilson  Large 

Dear  Large, — I  think  your  idea  a  good  one, 
and  I  shall  be  glad  to  join.  But  is  not  a  clock 
a  rather  unimaginative  present  .^  It  always  seems 
to  me  that  insufficient  thought  is  given  to  such 
matters.  I  have  put  down  a  few  articles  which 
I  129 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 

my    ^^ife    and     I     consider    more    suitable    and 
oriprinal. — Believe  me,  yours  sincerely, 

Horace  Sparrow 

Readinpr  Lamp. 
Revolving  Bookcase. 
Complete  set  of  Ruskin. 
After-dinner  Coffee  set. 

7^.S'. — Mrs.  Si)arrow  and  myself  have  derived 
more  comfort  from  a  breakfast  heater  than  any 
other  of  our  very  numerous  weddino;  presents. 

H.  S. 


IX 

Miss  Effic  Pollard  to  the  Rev.   Wilson  Large 

Dear  Mr.  Large, — We  think  it  such  a  charm- 
ing idea  of  yours,  and  shall  be  delighted  to 
assist.  My  mother  is  in  favour  of  a  butter-dish, 
but  the  clock  seems  to  me  an  admirable  thought. 
What  could  be  prettier  than  a  reminder  such  as 
this  that  another  hour  of  haj)})iness  has  passed, 
and  that  so  many  friends  have  good  wishes  for 
the  new  life!  As  I  tell  mother,  she  can  give  the 
butter-dish  independently,  if  you  think  that  our 
one  visit  to  Clumber  Towers,  on  the  occasion  of 
the    Missionary    Heli)ers'    Union    annual    fete,   a 


The  Wedding  Present 

sufficient  ground.     Meanwhile  I  enclose  a  postal 
order  for  a  pound,  and  remain  yours  sincerely, 

Effie  Pollard 


Jlic  Rev.  Wilson  Large  to  Mrs.  Harrison  Root 

Dear  Mrs.  Root, — I  am  happy  to  be  able  to 
tell  you  that  everything  is  in  train  for  the 
wedding  present  for  Lord  Clumber.  Mr.  Pyke- 
Luntin  has  very  kindly  arranged  to  buy  the  clock 
in  London,  in  a  shop  in  Bond  Street  where  I  saw 
them,  and  to  arrange  for  a  suitable  inscription. 
The  Tatler  which  you  send  me  is  very  interest- 
ing. Miss  Bangle  has  certainly  a  very  charming 
face,  but  it  seems  to  me  to  border  too  much  on 
fcimiliarity  to  call  her  plain  ^^  Birdie  "  underneath. 
Lord  Clumber  can  hardly  like  that.  Still,  it  is 
not  for  me  to  sit  in  judgment. — Believe  me,  dear 
Mrs.  Root,  yours  cordially, 

Wilson  Large 


Mr.  Jack  Pijkc-Luntln  to  the  Rev.  Wilson  Large 

Dear  Large, — I  am  sorry  to  say  that  the  fog 
yesterday  was  too  much  for  me  altogether,  and 
made  it  impossible  to  get  to  Bond  Street.     But 
131 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 

I  managed  to  struggle  as  tar  as  the  Stores, 
and  I  think  you  will  be  delighted  with  what 
1  managed  to  secure — a  real  bargain.  They  had 
no  clocks  worth  anything,  and  so  I  hop})ed  on 
to  this — a  first-class  Tantalus.  It  is  being  en- 
graved to-day,  and  should  reach  you  to-morrow. 
I  know  old  Clum  will  appreciate  that,  and  he's 
got  clocks  enough  already  to  tick  his  head 
off. — Yours  sincerely,  J.  Pvke-Luntin 


132 


II 

Jane's  Eighth  or  Ninth  ^        ^        <::> 

Mrs.  JVishari  to  her  sister,  Mrs.  Ti/lor 

Dear  Emily, — I  suppose  you  have  heard  that 
poor  Jane  is  engaged  again,  and  this  time  it  really 
looks  as  if  it  might  last.  I  heard  the  news  from 
Charlotte,  but  she  says  very  little.  She  has  not 
seen  him  yet.  He  is  a  curate  named  Trevor 
Singer,  and  at  present  is  in  a  church  at  Hove. 
It  does  not  sound  very  grand,  but  Jane,  of 
course,  has  her  £600  a  year,  and  that  should 
help.  She  will  never  give  up  her  horse,  I  am 
sure.  She  is  staying  at  Brighton  in  a  boarding- 
house,  all  alone,  near  a  mews.  How  like 
her ! — Yours,  L'^'cv 

Mrs.  'J'l/lor  to  Mrs.  Wishart 

Dear  Lucy, — What  you  say  about  Jane  has 
set  us  all  in  a  flutter.     We  have  been   trying  to 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 

fix  the  number  of  Mr.  Singer's  predecessors. 
Arthur  thinks  it  is  seven,  but  I  can  only  make 
six,  unless,  of  course,  you  count  that  little  archi- 
tect who  came  about  the  new  billiard-room.  But 
surely  that  was  all  on  one  side,  although  the 
same  remark  might,  I  suppose,  be  made  about 
them  all.  Well,  it  is  quite  time  she  settled 
down,  for  she  must  be  getting  on.  Is  it  thirty- 
seven  or  thirty-eight  ?  A  curate  at  Hove  does 
not  sound  very  exciting,  but  Jane  always  looked 
for  an  amenable  man  rather  than  an  exciting  one. 
Just  think  of  that  Socialist  she  used  to  lead 
about  when  we  were  all  at  Overstrand.  Which 
reminds  me  that  I  had  forgotten  him  when  I  was 
counting  them  up.  He  makes  seven  for  certain 
— with  the  little  architect  eight,  and  with  Mr. 
Singer  nine.  I  am  dying  to  hear  more  about  it 
all. — Yours,  Emily 


Mr.  Hugh  Ti/lor  to  Mrs.  Ti/lor 

Dear  Mother, — Who  do  you  think  I  saw  on 
the  sea  wall  yesterday  ?  Jane, — with  a  very  old 
parson.  She  was  hanging  on  his  arm  just  as  if 
she  were  his  only  daughter,  and  I  walked  behind 
them  for  ever  so  far,  and  then  hurried  away 
before  they  turned,  as  I  didn't  want  to  meet 
them  and  have  the  bore  of  being  introduced. 
134 


Jane's  Eighth  or  Ninth 

Besides,  I  didn't  want  Jane  to  know  I  was  here, 
or  she  would  be  bothering  me  to  ride  out  with 
her  beside  her  old  rocking-horse.  But  I  wonder 
who  the  parson  is  and  how  she  got  so  thick  with 
him.  It's  a  change  for  her,  after  her  poets  and 
high-art  furniture  men. — Your  affectionate 

Hugh 


Mr.  Hugh  TyJor  to  Mrs.  Tylor 

My  dear  Mother, — I  cannot  answer  your  ques- 
tions, I  am  afraid,  as  I  have  not  seen  the  parson 
again,  although  I  saw  Jane  on  horseback  yester- 
day and  was  just  in  time  to  turn  into  a  by-street. 
At  the  "  Bedford,"  where  I  am,  one  is  rather 
out  of  the  way  of  finding  out  anything  about 
Hove  curates,  but  his  name  is  in  the  Directory 
all  right.  Why  don't  you  try  the  Clergy  List  if 
you  want  to  know  more  ?  Or  write  to  Jane 
yourself.  Only  if  you  do,  don't  say  I  am  at 
Brighton :  I  came  here  for  rest.  I  am  quite 
sure  it  was  an  old  man  —  about  a  hundred,  I 
should  say.  Certainly  not  a  young  and  dashing 
curate. — Your  affectionate  Hugh 

Mrs.  Tylor  to  her  niece ,  Jane  llmlstoek 

My    dear   Jane, — I    have  just    heard    what    I 
hope  is  a  true    rumour — that   you    are   engaged. 
135 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 

I  tliink  you  nii<r}it  have  told  ine  yourself,  but  no 
doubt  you  have  had  very  little  time  in  the  midst 
of  your  new  happiness.  Do  let  me  have  a  line 
and  tell  me  all  about  him  ;  what  he  does, 
where  you  will  live,  what  his  age  is,  and  so 
forth. — Your  loving  aunt,  Emily 


3/m-  ,J(nu'  Jhidstock  to  Mr.\.  7'i/lur 

My  dear  Aunt  Emily, — I  am  sorry  that  I  did 
not  write  to  you  at  once.  As  a  matter  of  fact  I 
did  start  a  letter  to  you  a  day  or  so  ago,  but  while 
I  was  in  the  midst  of  it  I  went  for  a  ride  and  saw 
Hugh  coming  towards  me,  but  the  way  in  which 
he  turned  his  horse's  head  up  a  by -street  because 
he  did  not  want  to  be  bored  by  meeting  me,  dis- 
couraged me  from  going  on.  I  am  not  vindictive, 
but  I  am  utterly  daunted  by  any  susjiicion  of 
avoidance  in  others.  As  it  is,  however,  unfair  to 
include  you  in  this  feeling,  I  tell  you  now  verv 
readily  that  the  rumour  is  true.  It  is  a  Mr. 
Singer,  a  curate  at  St.  l^enedict's.  Hove,  and  we 
hope  to  be  married  very  soon.  He  will  stav  here 
until  he  gets  a  living,  which  may  hapjien  at  aiiv 
moment,  as  he  is  on  very  good  terms  with  both 
the  Bishop  and  the  Archbisho}).  His  age  is 
thirty-four.  I  could  have  wished  that  mv 
husband   were    older    than    I,    but    Trevor  wont 


Jane's  Eighth  or  Ninth 

hear  of  this.  He  is  totally  without  relations,  and 
was  a  very  lonely  man  until  I  met  him — on  the 
Downs  above  Brighton,  where  he  helped  to  get 
a  stone  out  of  Tommy's  foot. — Your  affectionate 
niece,  Jane 

Mrs.  Tylor  to  Mr.  Hugh  Ti/Ior 

My  dear  Hugh, — The  plot  thickens.  Jane 
(who,  it  seems,  saw  you  that  day  when  you  were 
riding,  and  is  hurt  by  your  treatment)  tells 
me  that  her  fanck  is  only  thirty-four.  This 
makes  the  old  clergyman  whom  you  saw  her 
embracing  a  very  mysterious  creature.  Are  you 
sure  it  was  Jane  .^  It  is  all  very  perplexing.  You 
ought  to  call  on  the  poor  girl.  She  is  very 
unhappy  about  your  behaviour. — Your  loving 
mother, 

Mrs.  Tylor  to  Mrs.  Wishart 

Dear  Lucy, — I  have  heard  from  Jane,  a  nice 
letter  telling  me  all  about  Mr.  Singer,  and  how 
happy  she  is.  One  of  her  delightful,  spontaneous, 
confiding  letters.  She  says  that  he  is  thirty-four, 
but  the  odd  thing  is  that  Hugh,  who  is  at  Brigh- 
ton, saw  her  hanging  on  the  arm  of  quite  an 
old  clergyman,  in  public,  on  the  sea  wall.  As 
the  dear  girl  says  that  \\Q\\fianct'  has  no  relations, 
137 


Life's  Little   Difficulties 

tliis    is    very  odd,  isn't   it?      But  slie  always  was 
odd,  and  made  siieli  eurious  friends. — Yours, 

l-.MILV 

Mrs.  Uudstock  to  her  daughter,  Jane  Riidstock 

My  dearest  Jane, —  I  am  so  distressed,  having 
heard  through  your  Aunt  Lucy  a  very  odd  story 
of  your  being  seen  on  the  Brighton  Front  in  much 
too  friendly  intercourse  with  an  old  clergyman, 
just  after  your  engagement  to  Mr.  Singer.  My 
dear  child,  you  must  be  very  careful  now  that 
you  are  engaged.  A})art  altogether  from  Mr. 
Singer's  feelings,  you  must  consider  us  too.  It 
was  bad  enough  to  go  to  Brighton  without  any 
chai)eron  but  your  eternal  horse.  Please  set  my 
mind  at  rest  by  telling  me  who  this  old  clergyman 
was.  I  hope  Mr.  Singer's  grandfather,  although 
I  seem  to  remember  that  you  said  he  had  no 
relations. — Your  fond  mother. 

From  Jd/w  Rud. stock  to  Mr\.  liud. stock 

Mv  DEAR  Mother,  —  As  usual,  the  whole 
trouble  has  come  through  Aunt  Lucy  and  Aunt 
Emily.  Hugh  seems  to  have  been  spying  about 
at  Brighton  and  sending  home  silly  letters, 
although  he  has  not  had  the  friendliness  to  call 
on  me.      There  is  nothing  to  explain,  except   that 


Jane's  Eighth  or  Ninth 

Trevor  has  white  hair  and  from  the  back  might 
look  okler  than  he  is.  If  you  were  to  trust  me 
more  it  would  be  better  for  us  all. — Your  loving 
daughter,  Jane 

Mrs.  Rudstock  to  her  daughter  Jane 

My  dear  Child, — Your  letter  fills  me  with 
misgivings.  Don't  say  you  are  marrying  an 
albino.  You  will  be  the  first  Rudstock  to  do 
such  a  thing.  Do  let  me  know  instantly  that 
his  white  hair  was  the  result  of  an  illness,  or  a 
sudden  fright.  I  cannot  bear  the  thought  of  my 
daughter's  husband  having  pink  eyes. — Your  dis- 
tressed mother. 

Jane  Rudstock  to  Mrs.  Rudstock 
{jrelegravi) 

Trevor  albino  right  enough.  Took  double 
first  Oxford.  Cousin  Lord  Lamberhurst.  First 
authority  England  on  Saxon  fonts.  Amateur 
champion  racquets,  1894.     Longs  meet  you. 

Jane 

Mrs.  Rudstock  to  her  sister,  Mrs.   JVishart 

Dear  Lucy, — I    do    wish    you    would    learn   a 
lesson  from  the  past,  and  not  exaggerate  simple 
things.     That  dreadful  trouble    over  Agnes    and 
139 


Life's  Little  DifTiculties 

the  Sunday  School  treat  ou<:^lit  to  have  taught 
you  soiiietliiiif]^.  All  the  fuss  about  poor  Jane  at 
Brighton  is  due  to  the  sini})le  fact  that  Mr. 
Singer,  to  whom  she  is  engaged,  has  prematurely 
white  hair — is,  in  fact,  an  albino.  Why  he  should 
not  be  I  cannot  see.  In  fact,  I  tliink  albinos 
quite  attractive,  and  they  are  notoriously  cleverer 
than  other  people.  He  is  a  dear  good  fellow,  a 
great  scholar  and  athlete,  and  the  cousin  of  Lord 
Lamberhurst,  and  we  are  all  going  to  be  very  fond 
of  him.      Please  write  Jane  a  nice  letter. — Yours, 

Charlotte 

Mrs.  JVis/iarf  lo  Mrs.  TyJor 

Dkau  Kmilv, — It  is  so  funny  I  can  hardly 
hold  the  pen.  Jane's  choice  is  an  albino,  and 
that  accounts  for  the  white  hair.  Charlotte  is 
trying  to  brave  it  out  and  pretend  that  she  could 
not  love  any  son-in-law  who  had  not  white  hair 
and  j)ink  eyes,  but  of  course  she  is  mortified  to 
death  at  tlic  humiliation  of  it.  Poor  Jane  ! 
How  they  can  allow  an  albino  to  take  orders  I 
can't  think,  es})ecially  when  the  Church  is  threat- 
ened on  all  sides  as  it  now  is;  but  tlu-ri'  you  are. 
I  wish  you  had  sent  on  .lane's  confiding,  spon- 
taneous letter  about  Iier  freak,  but  I  suj^pose  you 
had  vour  reasons  for  not  doing  so. — ^'ours, 

I.r(V 
140 


Ill 

The  Chauffeur    <:> 


Mrs.  Adrian  Armync  to  her  sister 
(^Extract) 

We  have  found  a  most  delightful  chauffeur^  a 
Frenchman  named  Achille  Le  Bon,  who  speaks 
English  perfectly,  although  with  a  foscinating 
accent,  and  is  altogether  most  friendly  and 
useful.  He  is  continually  doing  little  things 
for  me,  and  it  is  nice  too  to  have  someone  to  talk 
French  with.  Adrian's  conversational  French 
has  always  been  very  rusty.  You  remember  how 
in  that  little  shop  at  Avignon  in  1887  he  said 
"  Quel  dommagc  ?  "  for  "  What  is  the  price  ?  " 


Mr.  Adrian  Armync  to  the  Conservative  Agent  at 
Wilchester 

Mr.  Adrian  Armyne  presents  his  compliments 
to  Mr.   Bashford,  and  greatly  regrets  what  nmst 
141 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 

look  very  like  a  slight  in  his  absence  from  the 
chair  at  last  night's  meeting,  but  circumstances 
over  Mhich  he  had  no  control  caused  him  to  miss 
the  May  in  his  motor-car  and  afterwards  to  break 
down  at  a  spot  where  it  was  impossible  to  get 
any  other  vehicle.  Mr.  Armyne  caimot  too 
emphatically  express  his  regret  at  the  occurrence, 
and  his  hope  that  trust  in  his  good  faith  as  a 
worker  in  the  cause  of  Fiscal  Reform  mav  not  be 
permanently  shattered. 


Ill 

Sir  J'cnion  Bui/ce  to  Mr.  Arviyue 

Dear  Armyne, — I  think  you  ought  to  know 
that  I  came  across  your  Frenchman  with  a  gun 
in  the  Lower  Spinney  this  morning,  evidently 
intending  to  get  what  he  could.  He  explained 
to  me  that  he  distinctly  understood  you  to  say 
that  he  was  at  liberty  to  shoot  there.  How  such 
a  misunderstanding  can  iiave  arisen  I  cannot 
guess,  but  he  is  now  clearly  informed  as  to 
divisi(ms  of  land  and  other  matters  which 
aj)parently  are  different  in  France.  It  is  all 
right,  but  I  think  you  ought  to  kee})  an  eve 
on   him. — "^'ours  sincerely, 

N'kunon    IJoVCE 
142 


The  Chauffeur 

IV 

Mrs.  Armtjnc  to  her  sister 
{Extract) 

Achille  is  certainly  very  useful,  although  his 
mercurial  French  nature  makes  him  a  little  too 
careless  about  time,  and  once  or  twice  he  has 
been  nowhere  to  be  found  at  important  junctures. 
For  instance,  we  completely  missed  Lord  Tan- 
caster's  wedding  the  other  day.  Not  that  that 
mattered  very  much,  especially  as  we  had  sent 
a  silver  inkstand,  but  Adrian  is  rather  annoyed. 
Achille  plays  the  mandoline  charmingly  (we  hear 
him  at  night  in  the  servants'  hall),  and  he  has 
been  teaching  me  repousse  work. 


Mrs.  Anmpie  to  Mrs.  Jack  Lyon 

Dear  Mrs.  Lyon, — My  husband  and  myself 
are  deeply  distressed  to  have  put  out  your  table 
last  evening,  but  it  was  one  of  those  accidents 
that  occur  now  and  then,  and  which  there  is  no 
foreseeing  or  remedying.  The  fact  is  that  we  were 
all  ready  to  go  and  had  ordered  the  car,  when  it 
transpired  that  Achille,  our  chauffeur,  had  been 
called  to  London  by  telegram,  and  had  left  in  so 
great  a  hurry  that  he  had  no  time  to  warn  us. 
143 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 

By  the  time  we  could  have  sent  to  the  village  and 
got  a  carriage  your  dinner  would  have  been  over, 
and  so  we  decided  not  to  go  at  all.  Achille  has 
not  yet  returned,  which  makes  us  fear  that  the 
poor  fellow,  who  has  relatives  in  Soho,  may  have 
found  real  trouble. — Yours  sincerely, 

Emily   Armvnk 

VI 

Mr.  Arnii/NC  to  AchiUc  Le  Ban 

Dear  Aciiillf, —  I  am  very  sorry  to  have  to 
tell  you  that  it  has  been  made  necessary  ft)r  us  to 
ask  you  to  go.  This  is  not  on  account  of  any  dis- 
satisfaction that  we  have  with  you,  but  merely 
that  Mrs.  Armyne  has  heard  of  the  son  of  an  old 
housekeeper  of  her  father's  who  wishes  for  a  post 
as  chauffeur,  and  she  feels  it  only  right  that  he 
should  be  given  a  trial.  You  will,  I  am  sure,  see 
how  the  case  stands.  Perhaps  we  had  better  say 
that  a  month's  notice  begins  from  to-day,  but  you 
may  leave  as  much  earlier  as  you  like.  I  shall,  of 
course,  be  only  too  pleased  to  do  all  I  can  to  find 
you  another  situation.  I  should  have  told  you 
this  in  j)erson,  but  had  to  go  to  tt>wn,  and 
now  writ(;  because  I  think  it  would  be  wrong 
n(»t  to  let  you  have  as  early  an  intimation  of 
Mrs.  .\rmvnc  s  decision  as  possible.  —  I  am.  yours 
faithfully,  Adhian    .\hmvnk 

144 


The  Chauffeur 


Mr.  Armijiie  to  AchiUe  Le  Bon 
{By  hand) 

Dear  Achille^ — I  am  afraid  that  a  letter  which 
was  posted  to  you  from  London  when  I  was  last 
there,  a  month  ago,  cannot  have  reached  you. 
Letters  are  sometimes  lost,  and  this  must  be  one 
of  them.  In  it  I  had  to  inform  you  that  Mrs. 
Armyne,  having  made  arrangements  for  an 
English  chauffeur  who  has  claims  on  her  con- 
sideration (being  the  son  of  an  old  housekeeper 
of  her  father's,  who  was  in  his  service  for  many 
years,  and  quite  one  of  the  family),  it  was  made 
necessary  for  us,  much  against  our  will,  for  we 
esteem  you  very  highly,  to  ask  you  to  go.  As 
that  letter  miscarried,  I  must  now  repeat  the 
month's  notice  that  I  then  was  forced  to  give, 
and  the  permission  for  you  to  leave  at  any  time 
within  the  month  if  you  like. — I  am,  youra 
faithfully,  Adrian  Armyne 

VlII 

Mr.  Armyne  to  his  nephew,  Sidney  Burnet 
{Extract) 

There  seems  to  be  nothing  for  it  but  to  sell  our 
car.     This  is  a  great  blow  to  us,  but  we  cannot  go 

K  145 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 

on    as    \ve    are,    apj)areiitly  owiiin<r  a  car  but  in 
reality  being  owned  by  a  eliauffeur. 


IX 

Sidncij  Burnet  to  Mr.  Arnnjiie 

Dear  Unclp:, — Don't  sell  the  car.  The  thing 
to  do  is  to  pretend  to  sell  it,  get  rid  of  your 
Napoleon,  and  then  have  it  back.  Why  not  say 
I  have  bought  it }  I  will  come  over  one  day  soon 
and  drive  it  home.  Say  Thursday  morning. — Your 
affectionate  nephew,  Sidney 


X 

Mr.  Arm^ne  to  Mr.  Sidney  Buniet 

My  dear  Sidney, — Your  plan  seems  to  me  to 
be  ingenious,  but  your  aunt  is  opposed  to  it. 
She  says  that  Achille  might  find  it  out.  Suppose, 
for  example,  he  came  back  for  something  lie  had 
forgotten  and  saw  the  car  in  the  coach-house  again  I 
What  should  we  do  ?  Another  objection  is  that 
poor  Job  is  ill,  and  Achille  remarked  to  me  the 
other  day  that  before  he  took  to  engineering  he 
was  a  gardener.  From  what  I  know  of  him,  this 
means  that  unless  Job  gets  better,  Achille  —  if 
146 


The  Chauffeur 

your  plan  is  carried  through — will  ask  to  be 
retained  in  Job's  place,  and  this  will  mean  that  we 
shall  never  see  asparagus  or  strawberries  again. 
Don't  you  think  that  we  might  go  to  town,  and 
you  could  ride  over  to  "Highfield"  and  give 
Achille  notice  yourself  for  me  ?  We  will  go 
to  town  to-morrow,  and  you  might  see  Achille  on 
Mondav. — Your  affectionate  uncle. 


XI 

Sidney  Burnet  to  Mr.  Anni/ne 

Dear  Uncle, — I  went  over  and  sacked  Achille 
to-day  as  arranged,  but  he  replied  that  he  could 
take  notice  only  from  you  ;  and  that  from  what 
Aunt  Emily  had  said  to  him  just  before  you  went 
away  he  is  sure  there  has  been  some  mistake.  As 
to  notice  from  you,  I'm  afraid  the  beggar's  right. 
He  seems  to  have  taken  advantage  of  your 
absence  to  build  a  really  rather  clever  pergola 
leading  from  Aunt  Emily's  sitting-room  to  the 
rose  walk,  as  a  surprise  for  Mrs.  Armyne,  he  said. 
He  has  also  re-painted  all  your  bookshelves  and 
mended  that  pair  of  library  steps.  With  the 
despatch  of  this  bulletin  I  retire  from  the  position 
of  discharger  of  Frenchmen. — Your  affectionate 
nephew,  Sidney 

147 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 


Mrs.  Jack  Lijo)i  to  a  fr'ioid  a  f'civ  }no/il/is  later 
(Kd'tract) 

You  remember  tlie  Aimynes?  In  despair  at 
ever  getting  rid  of  their  chauffeur,  who  certainly 
led  them  a  fearful  dance,  although  he  Mas  rather 
a  dear  creature,  the  ])o()r  things  let  their  house 
for  a  year  and  decided  to  travel.  I  have  just 
heard  from  Bella,  from  Florence,  that  she  met 
them  toiling  up  the  hill  to  Fiesole  the  other  day, 
and  behind  them,  carrying  Mrs.  Armyne's  easel, 
was — who  do  you  think  ?     The  chauffeur  I 


148 


IV 

The  Dedication  ^^       < 


Mr.  Launcclot  Wijkc  Pilling,  of  "  The  Dryads," 
JVorthing,  to  Dr.  W.  Porter  Poddij,  Mereham, 
Norjolk 

Dear  Dr.  Roddv^ — I  am  just  collecting  together 
in  one  volume  all  my  fugitive  poetry  of  the  past 
nine  years^  since  the  publication  of  my  Death  of 
Ham,  and  other  Poems,  and  it  would  give  me  great 
pleasure  to  dedicate  the  book  to  you,  not  only  as 
some  recognition  of  your  industry  as  an  antiquary, 
but  also  as  an  acknowledgment  of  the  great  skill 
which  you  displayed  during  my  long  and  very  severe 
illness  last  summer,  from  which  I  am  now  happily 
recovered,  save  for  an  increased  tendency  to  take 
cold. — Believe  me,  dear  Doctor,  yours  veiy  truly, 
Lauxcelot  Wvke  Filling 
149 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 


Dr.  Roddij  to  Mr.  Pi/llng 

My  DKAii  Mr.  Pilling, — Your  letter,  with  its 
flattering  offer,  does  me  too  iiuich  hoiK)ur,  The 
archaH)logist  quickly  gets  into  the  habit  of  not 
looking  for  recognition  or  reward.  Perhaps,  as 
antiquity  has  worked  for  him,  it  is  only  right  that 
he  should  work  for  posterity.  Plence,  although 
such  coups  as  I  may  have  brought  off  in  the  fields 
of  archaeology  and  folk-lore  have  been  commemo- 
rated in  the  local  press  and  in  the  minutes  of  our 
Society,  the  wider  world  knows  almost  nothing  of 
me.  The  dedication  page  of  your  volume  will  be 
the  first  intimation  of  my  name  and  career  to  a 
large  portion  of  the  English-speaking  community. 
I  thank  you  very  heartily  for  your  courtesy. 
Perhaps  you  will  let  me  have  a  notion  of  the  form 
which  the  dedication  will  take.  As  for  your 
tendency  to  catch  cold,  of  which  I  am  very  sorry 
to  hear,  I  would  recommend  the  adoption  of  an 
abdominal  belt,  often  a  sure  precautionary 
measure.  —  Believe  me,  my  dear  Sir,  yours  very 
truly, 

\V.    PoirrKU    Ri>i)i)V 


ISO 


The  Dedication 
III 

Mr.  Pilluig  to  Dr.  Roddij 

Dear  Dr.  Roddy, — It  gratifies  me  extremely 
to  find  that  you  will  allow  your  name  to  honour 
my  poor  bantling.  The  dedication  will  run 
thus  : — 

To  W.   Porter  Roddy,  M.D. 

the  modern  Galen  to  whom  the  author  owes 
his  life,  recently  jeopardised  on  a  visit  to 
the  East  Coast  by  a  severe  attack  of 
rheumatoid  arthritis,  and  the  modern  Old- 
buck  to  whose  imaginative  labour  and 
indefatigable  researches  into  the  storied  past 
the  townspeople  of  Mereham  and  the  in- 
habitants of  East  Norfolk  generally  owe 
so  much,  this  volume  is,  with  respect  and 
admiration,  dedicated. 

I  think  that  that  expresses  the  case  verj7 
clearly  and,  if  I  may  say  so,  with  a  pleasant  allu- 
siveness,  and  I  feel  sure  that  you  will  agree  withr 
me.  I  am  ordering  an  abdominal  belt. — Believe 
me,  dear  Doctor,  yours  very  truly, 

Launcelot  Wyke  Pilling 

P.S. — I     re-open    this    to     say    that     I    have 
suddenly  become  the  victim  of  a  most  curious  and^^ 
151 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 

to  me,  alarming  singing  in  the  ears,  so  loud  that  I 
can  hardly  hear  anything  that  is  going  on. 

L.  W.  P. 


Dr.  Roihhj  to  Mr.  Pilling 

Dear  Mr.  Pilling, — The  wording  of  the  dedi- 
cation is  very  flattering,  and  I  am  so  much 
honoured  by  it  that  I  hesitate  to  utter  a  syllable 
of  criticism  ;  but  since  you  have  been  so  kind  I 
am  emboldened  to  suggest  that  a  more  suitable 
predecessor  than  Oldbuck  might  be  found.  For 
two  reasons:  (l)  he  was  a  character  not  in  real 
life  but  in  fiction,  in  a  novel  by  Sir  Walter  Scott, 
and  Galen  being  a  real  man  I  would  suggest, 
with  all  deference,  that  whatever  antiquary  you 
choose  should  be  real  too ;  and  (!2)  if  by  any 
typographical  disaster,  such  as  are,  unhappily, 
only  too  frequent  in  our  local  press,  a  space  were 
to  intervene  between  the  first  and  second  syllables 
of  his  name,  the  reference  to  me  would  become 
instantly  not  respectful  as  you  so  kindly  desire, 
but  grotesque.  I  trust  I  make  myself  clear.  I 
would  suggest  the  substitute  of  some  such  name 
as  Aubrey  or  Leland. 

The  singing  in  the  ears  has  probably  passed 
away  by  this  time ;  but  if  it  has  not  I  should 
152 


The  Dedication 

take  a  tonic.  Weston's  Syrup  might  be  useful, 
and  it  is  easily  obtained  of  any  chemist. — Believe 
me,  yours  very  truly,  W.  Porter  Roddv 


Mr.  Pilling  to  Dr.  llochhj 

Dear  Dr.  Hoddv, — I  am  sorry  that  you  take 
exception  to  my  dedication,  which  was,  I  assure 
you,  not  idly  thrown  off,  but  represents  the  work 
of  some  hours  of  thought.  Your  objection  to 
Oldhuck  illustrates  once  again  the  impossibility 
of  reconciling  science  with  poetry.  I,  a  poet, 
wishing  my  dedication  to  be  in  keeping  with  my 
book,  choose  deliberately  a  figure  of  the  imagina- 
tion from  the  greatest  of  all  modern  novelists 
(whom  you  do  not,  I  fear,  sufficiently  esteem). 
You,  being  a  man  of  science,  require  me  to  sub- 
stitute the  name  of  some  fusty  old  bookworm 
and  tombstone -scraper  from  real  life.  Few 
people  give  way  to  criticism  so  readily  as  I,  but 
in  this  case  I  really  must  be  firm. 

The  singing  in  the  head,  which  you  treat  so 
lightly,  still  continues  to  cause  me  the  gravest 
concern.  I  have  taken  two  doses  of  the  syrup 
without  any  relief. — Believe  me,  yours  truly, 

Launcelot  Wyke  Pilling 
153 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 

VI 

Dr.  Roddij  fo  yfr.  Pilling 

Dear  Mr.  Pii.mncj, — I  am  sorry  that  we  cannot 
see  eye  to  eye  in  this  matter.  I  have  taken  the 
liberty  of  submitting  your  dedication  to  several 
of  my  friends^  including  tlie  \'icar,  an  exception- 
ally gilted  man,  and  tlie  Curator  of  the  Museum, 
whose  memoir  on  bees  is  a  standard  work,  and 
all  agree  with  me  that  a  suggestion  of  not  pre- 
cisely frivolity  but  want  of  the  highest  seriousness 
is  imparted  by  the  reference  to  Jonal/ian  Old  buck. 
The  Vicar  is  also  of  opinion  that  it  is,  ])erhaps, 
understating  the  case  to  limit  my  reputation,  as 
you  do,  to  East  Norfolk,  since  I  have  several 
times  contributed  to  Xotcs  and  Queries.  I  have, 
however,  done  with  criticism,  and  beg  to  repeat 
my  thanks  to  you  for  your  kindness. 

A  tonic  requires  time  to  do  its  work.  Two 
doses  could  not  effect  any  material  improvement. 
The  singing  is  probably  over  by  now. — Believe 
me,  yours  very  truly,  W.  Portf.r  Uonnv 

VII 

3//-.  Pilling  lo  Dr.  Puuldii 

Dear  Dr.  Honnv, —  I  am  horrified  to  learn  that 
you  have  committed  the  solecism — the  unjiardon- 


The  Dedication 

able  solecism  —  of  showing  my  dedication  to 
strangers.  Were  you  more  conversant  with  the 
laws,  written  or  unwritten,  of  authorship,  you 
would  know  that  this  is  never  done :  that  every- 
thing is  avoided  that  can  take  the  fine  edge  of 
novelty  from  a  new  book.  The  incident  has 
completely  disheartened  me,  and  I  am  quite 
incapable  of  attending  any  further  to  the  dedi- 
cation. 

To    add    to    it    all,    the    singing   in     my    ears 
increases. — Believe  me,  yours  faithfully, 

Launcelot  Wyke  Pilling 


Dr.  Roddy  to  Mr.  Pilling 

Dear  Mr.  Pilling, — I  am  extremely  sorry ; 
but  my  friends  read  the  dedication  in  strictest 
confidence,  and  I  was  quite  unaware  that  I  was 
offending.  Perhaps  the  matter  had  better  drop 
altogether.  You  will  have,  I  am  sure,  no  diffi- 
culty in  finding  a  worthier  and  less  critical 
object  to  whom  to  offer  your  volume. — Believe 
me,  yours  very  truly, 

W.  Porter  Roddy 


55 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 

IX 

Mr.  Pi/ling  to  tlic  Bishop  of  Caster 

My  Lord^ — I  am  just  collecting  together  in 
one  volume  all  my  fugitive  poetry  of  the  past 
nine  years, — since,  in  fact,  the  publication  of  my 
Death  of  Ham,  and  other  Poems, — and  it  would 
give  me  great  pleasure  and  confer  a  high  dis- 
tinction upon  the  book,  if  I  might  be  permitted 
to  dedicate  it  to  you,  not  only  to  mark  your 
interest  in  poetry,  but  also  from  personal  gratitude 
for  benefits  received  from  your  Lenten  sermons 
last  year,  which  I  attended  with  my  wife,  and 
which  we  still  vividly  remember. — Relieve  me, 
my  Lord,  your  obedient  servant, 

Launcelot  Wvke   Pilling 


The  Rev.  Ci/ril  Blood  (^Private  Sccrctari/  to  the 
Bishop  of  Caster)  to  Mr.  PiUi)ig 

Dear  Sir, — I  am  instructed  by  the  Bishop  to 
say  that  he  will  be  pleased  to  accept  the  dedi- 
cation to  wliich  you  refer;  but  that  if  vou  pro- 
pose to  make  it  a  lengthy  one  he  must  insist 
on  seeing  a  proof — I  am,  yours  faithfully, 

C'VIMI.     Hl.OOI) 


'S6 


The  Appointment 


Mr.  Adrian  Spillhig,  of  the  Education  Office,  to 
Miss  Meta  Bland 

{Bij  hand.     "  Wait  repl^") 

My  dear  Girl^ — What  has  happened  ?  I 
waited  for  you  from  five  minutes  to  three  until 
twenty  past  four^  when  I  had  to  go  in  order 
to  show  up  in  Whitehall  for  a  little  while. 
W^here  can  you  have  been  ?  It  is  not  as  if 
I  had  so  much  time  to  spare  that  it  can  be 
frittered  away  like  this.  Surely  I  wrote  clearly 
enough — "  Under  the  clock,  Victoria,  at  three." 
I  distinctly  remember  writing  these  words. 
Please  let  me  have  a  line  at  any  rate  to  say 
you  are  all  right. — Yours  always, 

A. 
157 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 
II 

Miss  Mcta  Bland  (o  Mr.  Adrian  Spilling 

{By  hand.      "  Wail  rcplif"^ 

My  dear  Adrian, — Do  send  me  a  word  to  say 
you  are  Mell,  and  that  it  was  only  some  horrid 
office  business  that  kept  you.  I  am  so  nervous 
about  you.  I  waited  as  you  told  me  under  the 
clock  at  Victoria,  from  five  minutes  past  three  (I 
could  not  possibly  get  there  before)  until  four, 
and  then  I  gave  it  up  and  went  to  Mrs.  Legge's 
to  tea,  as  I  was  compelled  to  do.  Unless  you  had 
come  and  gone  before  I  got  there,  I  cannot  have 
missed  you,  for  I  watched  everybody  that  entered 
the  station.  These  broken  appointments  are 
terribly  wearing.  I  am  tired  out  this  evening, 
and  quite  unfit  to  dine  at  the  Sergisons,  where 
they  always  talk  about  A  elasquez  and  show  you 
sprigs  of  the  true  poet's  laurel. — Ever  yours, 

M. 

Ill 

3//.V.V  Mcta  Bland  tu  Mr.  Adrian  Sj)illing 

(^Bi/  hand.      Answer  to  .Vt>.  l) 

Df.au    Adrian, — I    haven't    the    slightest  idea 
what  your  letter  means.     I  repeat  that  I  waited 
under    the    clock    at  Victoria  from  five    minutes 
■S8 


The  Appointment 

past  three  until  four.  If  you  also  were  there  you 
were  invisible.  I  am  relieved  to  find  you  are  all 
right. — Yours,  M. 

IV 

Mr.  Adrian  Spilling  to  Miss  Met  a  Bland 

{Bif  hand.     Answer  to  No.  2) 

Dear  Meta, — It  is  inexplicable  to  me.  I  was 
certainly  there,  and  as  certainly  you  were  not ; 
and  another  afternoon  has  been  lost.  These 
things  I  simply  cannot  view  with  composure. 
Life  is  too  short.  I  will  let  you  know  about 
Thursday  as  soon  as  I  can,  but  my  Chief 
seems  to  be  inclined  to  resent  my  long  ab- 
sence to  day,  and  I  shall  have  to  be  a  little 
careful. — Yours,  A. 

P.S. — It  has  just  occurred  to  me  that  you  may 
have  been  waiting  at  the  London  and  Brighton 
part  of  the  station.  That,  of  course,  would 
explain  it,  although  how  you  could  imagine  me 
to  mean  that  I  cannot  think. 

V 

Miss  Meta  Bland  to  Mr.  Adrian  Spilling 

Dear  Adrian, — I  have  only  just  learned  that 
there  are  two  stations  at  Victoria.     Considering 
159 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 

how  often  I  have  been  to  Brighton  lately,  you 
surely  might  have  been  more  ex})licit  and  said 
quite  plainly  that  it  was  the  other  that  you 
meant.  It  is  all  very  foolish  and  disappointing. 
I  should  like  to  forget  it. — Yours,  M. 


VI 

Mr.  Adrian  Sj)ill/ni^  to  Miss  Mctd  lUcuid 

Dkar  Meta, — I  should  like  to  forget  it  too ; 
but  what  you  say  simply  bowls  me  out.  I  always 
looked  upon  you  as  one  of  the  few  women  who 
have  any  intelligence.  How  you  can  say  you  did 
not  know  there  was  another  Mctoria  passes 
my  knowledge,  when  it  was  from  there  that 
we  went  on  that  awful  visit  to  your  aunt  at 
Faversham.  However,  I  shall  know  better  next 
time. — Yours,  A. 

\  II 

3//.V.V  Met  a  I)l(Ui(l  to  Mr.  Adrian  Si)i/lin<^ 

Dkau  Adiuax, —  I  thought  wc  went  to  I'avcrs- 
ham  from  Charing  Cross  ;  but  anyway  I  don't  see 
why  you  are  so  bitter  about  poor  Aunt  Adelaide. 
I  am  sure  she  was  very  kind  to  you,  and  oven  let 
you  smoke  in  the  house,  which  no  one  was  ever 
allowed  to  do  before.  It  seems  to  me  that  since 
1 60 


The  Appointment 

you  knew  all  about  there  being  two  Victoria 
Stations  you  might  liave  walked  over  to  the 
other  one  to  see  if  1  was  there. — Yours, 

M. 


Mr.  Adrian  Spilling  to  Miss  Meta  Bland 

Dear  Meta, — I  don't  understand  you  at  all 
about  your  aunt.  All  the  time  we  were  there 
you  were  scheming  to  be  out  of  doors,  and  I  still 
remember  your  sigh  of  relief  when  the  train 
started  on  the  Monday  morning  ;  but  now  you 
take  a  directly  op})osite  view.  I  suppose  women 
are  like  this.  As  to  coming  over  to  the  Brighton 
side  to  see  if  you  were  there,  I  never  dreamed 
you  could  be  so  foolish  as  to  make  the  mistake, 
and  besides,  if  I  had  left  my  post  I  might  have 
missed  you.  But  do  let  us  drop  this  wretched 
subject. 

I  am  very  sorry  to  say  that  I  can't  possibly 
take  you  to  hear  Kreisler  on  Friday  as  we  had 
planned.  My  Chief  has  asked  me  to  dinner,  and 
it  amounts  to  a  command.  But  I  could  come 
afterwards  and  take  you  home. — Yours, 

A. 


i6i 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 


IX 

Miss  McUi  lUnnd  to  Mr.  Adrian  Spi/litig 

Demi  Adrianv, — It  doesn't  in  the  least  matter 
about  Kreisler,  as  Mr.  Cumnor-Hall,  who  was 
here  this  evening  when  your  note  eame,  is  going 
to  take  us.  Please  don't  trouble  to  leave  your 
party  in  order  to  fetch  me  home,  as  Mr. 
Cumnor-Hall  has  asked  us  to  have  supper  after- 
wards. He  is  always  so  generous  about  things 
like  that. — Yours,  M. 


X 

Mr.  Adrian  Spi/ling  to  Miss  Mvia  Bland 

Dear  Meta, — Of  course  you  must  do  as  you 
wish  about  Cumnor-Hall.  I  shall  certainly  not 
come  to  fetch  you,  as  he  is  not  the  kind  of  man 
that  I  care  about.  Your  sneer  about  my  want 
of  generosity  is  the  cruellest  thing  I  ever  re- 
member anyone  saying  to  me.  \\  lien  one  has 
only  £300  a  year  in  a  (iovernment  office,  and  a 
very  small  private  income,  supper  parties  at  the 
Savoy  are  not  easy  things.  If  you  want 
luxuries  like  that  it  is  a  })ily  you  ever  made 
me  love  you. — Yours,  A. 


1 6. 


The  Appointment 

XI 

Miss  Met  a  Bland  to  Mr.  Adrian  Spilling 

Dear  Adrian^ — You  are  most  unkind  and 
unfair.  You  know  I  did  not  mean  to  suggest 
that  you  were  ungenerous.  I  think  of  you  as  the 
most  generous  man  I  know.  And  you  ought  to 
know  that  the  last  thing  I  shoukl  ever  do  would 
be  to  sneer  at  you.  I  don't  sneer  at  anyone, 
least  of  all  at  you.  But  that  horrid  \'ictoria 
Station  affair  seems  to  have  made  us  both  ready 
to  misunderstand  each  other.  Do  let  us  have 
all  Saturday  afternoon  somewhere  and  forget  this 
stupid,  bad-tempered  week. — Ever  yours,  M. 

XII 

Mr.  Adrian  Spilling  to  Miss  Mcta  Bland 

(Bj/  hand^ 

Mv  DARLING  Meta, — We  will  go  to  Kew  on 
Saturday  afternoon.  I  will  come  for  you  at  half- 
past  two.  I  hope  you  will  think  this  little  piece  of 
enamel  rather  sweet.     I  do. — Yours  always. 


163 


VI 

The  Testimonial 


Jahcz  Copley,  of  Coplei/'a  Stores,  to  the  leading 
residents  of  Greed  Burlei/  and  neighhourliuod 

(cyclostyle) 
The  Missenden  Testimonial  Fund 

Dear  Sir  (or  Madam), — I  have  the  honour  to 
iiitorni  you  tliat  our  worthy  Stationmaster  Mr. 
Misseiuleii,  havin*:^  received  promotion,  is  leavin<r 
us  very  shortly  for  a  higher  sj)here  of  activity,  and 
some  of  his  friends  met  together  last  night  at  the 
"  King's  Arms  "  to  confer  as  to  a  testimonial  to 
be  ])rescnted  to  him.  Greatly  to  my  surprise,  I 
was  asked  to  undertake  the  duties  of  hon. 
secretary  and  hon.  treasurer,  and  it  is  in  these 
capacities  that  I  take  the  liberty  of  addressing 
you.  'i'he  meeting  decided  to  o])en  a  sul)scrip- 
164 


The  Testimonial 

tioii  list  for  Mr.  Missenclen  in  the  town  and 
neighbourhood,  and  to  present  him  with  the 
proceeds  and  with  an  illuminated  address. 

The  following  is  the  address  that  was  drawn  up 
— I  may  say  by  myself : — 

Presented  to 
JAMES  HENRY  MISSENDEN 

BY  THE  GENTRY  AND  INHABITANTS  OF  GREAT 
BURLEY 

on  the  occasion  of  his  departure  from  that 
Town,  on  the  completion  of  nearly  Eight  Years 
of  honourable  service  as  Station  Master,  to 
take  up  a  post  of  increased  responsibility  at 
Chipham  Junction  —  as  a  mark  of  their 
appreciation  of  his  Courtesy  and  Efficiency 
during  his  period  of  office  at  Great  Burley 
Terminus. 

This  address  will  be  engrossed  in  several  colours 
and  in  gold,  with  appropriate  borders  and  scroll- 
work (as  in  the  illuminated  texts  in  our  bedrooms) 
by  Miss  Millie  Feathers,  at  the  school,  who  is 
very  clever  and  artistic  with  her  hands,  and 
presented  to  Mr.  Missenden,  with  the  purse,  at  the 
"  King's  Arms  "  on  a  suitable  evening. — Await- 
ing your  reply,  I  am,  dear  Sir  (or  Madam),  yours 
obediently,  Jabez  Copley 

Hon.  Sec.  and  Treasurer  of  the 
.    Missenden  Testimonial  Fund 

i6s 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 


Added,  in  Mr.  Coplcif.s  own  hand,  to  a  few  of  the 
letters 

P.S.  —  It  is  not  my  ^visll  to  intrude  business, 
but  I  iVel  it  would  be  wronir  not  to  take  this 
o})portunity  of  informing  you  that  I  liave  just 
received  a  particularly  advantageous  line  of  pre- 
served fruits,  which  I  can  do  at  extraordinarily 
low  terms.      No  time  should  be  lost  in  ordering. 


II 

3//.y.v  3////  to  Mr.  Jahez  Cop/ei/ 

Dear  Mr.  C'oim.kv, — I  had  no  idea  that  the 
Stationmaster  was  going.  How  interesting  to 
find  that  his  name  is  Missenden !  It  was  the 
name  of  my  mother's  favourite  cook.  She  came, 
I  think  from  Ksher,  »)r  it  may  have  been  I'xcter. 
It  is  odd  how  long  one  may  live  without  kno>\ing 
the  name  of  one's  Stationmaster,  altiiough  my 
niece  tells  me  it  has  to  be  jiaintcd  up  some- 
where, like  a  licensed  victualler's.  I  think  I 
should  like  to  try  a  box  of  the  })reserved  fruit  if 
it  is  really  nice. — '^'ours  truly, 

L^I)I^    Mil. I. 


i66 


The  Testimonial 


Sir  Charles  Transom's  Secretary  to  Mr.  Jabez 
Copley 

Dear  Sir, — Sir  Charles  Transom  directs  me  to 
present  his  compHments  and  to  express  his  regret 
that  he  must  decline  to  lend  his  support  to  the 
testimonial  to  the  Great  Burley  Stationmaster. 
Sir  Charles  dislikes  to  see  this  kind  of  premium 
put  upon  duty,  nor  can  he  forget  the  want  of 
sympathetic  zeal  and  alacrity  displayed  by  the 
Stationmaster  in  the  autumn  of  1898  in  the 
matter  of  a  lost  portmanteau  containing  the 
manuscript  of  Sir  Charles'  monograph  on  the 
Transom  family. — Believe  me,  yours  faithfully, 

Vincent  A.  Lincoln 


IV 

The  Ficar  of  Great  Burleij  to  Mr.  Jabez  Copley 

Dear  Mr.  Copley, — I  am  afraid  I  cannot 
associate  myself  very  cordially  with  the  terms  of 
your  testimonial  to  Mr.  Missenden.  Eight  years 
is  a  very  short  jieriod  to  signalise  in  this  way, 
and  I  do  not  care  for  the  part  ])layed  by  the 
"  King's  Arms."  I  am  sorry  to  have  to  take 
this  line ;  but  we  must  act  as  we  believe.  I 
167 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 

should  be  seriously  vexed  if  you  got  up  a  testi- 
monial for  me  after  so  short  a  term  of  work. — I 
am,  yours  sincerely, 

Rkginali)   Lowthkr 


Mr.  Jahez  Coplci/  to  the  I'icar  of  Great  Burlei/ 

Reverend  Sir, — I  regret  that  you  cannot  give 
your  valuable  and  esteemed  su})port  to  the 
testimonial  to  Mr.  Missenden,  but  I  respect 
your  motives.  I  should  Hke  to  say  in  reply  to 
your  suggestion  about  a  testimonial  to  yourself 
and  my  connection  \vith  it,  that  I  should  never, 
I  hope,  so  far  presume  as  to  take  the  leading 
part  in  a  movement  of  this  kind  for  a  gentleman 
like  yourself  My  rule  in  life  is  that  station  should 
keep  to  station,  and  I  trust  I  shall  never  be  so 
foolish  as  to  depart  from  it.  But  although  I 
should  not  presume  to  take  a  leading  part 
in  your  testimonial,  as  you  kindly  suggest,  I 
should,  however,  contribute  to  it  with  a  whole 
heart. — Believe  me,  yours  obediently, 

Jabez  Copley 

Hon.  Sec.  and  Treasurer  of  the 

Missenden  Testimonial  Fund 


6S 


The  Testimonial 


Mr.  Aylmcr  Pcnistone  to  Mr.  Jahcz  Copley 

Dear  Mr.  Copley, — I  do  not  quite  feel  dis- 
posed to  give  anything  to  Missenden.  You 
should  draw  up  a  different  testimonial  for  those 
of  us  who  travel  third-class,  omitting  the  word 
"courtesy." — I  am,  yours  faithfully, 

Aylmer  Penistone 

VII 

Mrs.  Lijon  Mounteneij  to  Mr.  Jahez  Copley 

Mrs.  Mounteney  is  very  pleased  to  see,  from 
Mr.  Copley's  letter,  that  a  spirit  of  frendliness 
and  comradeship  is  abroad  in  Great  Burley. 
Would  that  all  English  towns  had  the  same 
generous  feelings  !  Not  having  used  the  railway 
for  several  years,  owing  to  her  poor  health,  Mrs. 
Mounteney  does  not  feel  that  she  could  with 
propriety  identify  herself  with  so  personal  a 
testimonial,  but  she  wishes  it  every  success.  Mrs. 
Mounteney  does  not  care  for  preserved  fruit. 


Mr.  Murray  Collier,  L.U.C.P.,  to  Mr.  Jahez  Copley 

Dear    Mr.   Copley, — A   difficulty   with   regard 
to  the  boys'  boxes,  which  r)ccurs  regularly  at  the 
i6() 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 

end  of  each  term^  and  ^vhicll  l)rin«irs  out  Mr. 
Missenden's  native  churlishness  like  a  rash,  makes 
it  impossible  for  me  to  support  your  appeal. 
After  what  I  have  had  to  say  and  write  to  tlie 
Stationmaster  it  would  seem  pure  pusillanimity 
to  give  him  money  and  praise.  May  I,  however, 
suggest  the  emendation  of  one  small  oversight 
in  your  otherwise  tasteful  address?  By  no 
possible  means  can  our  little  wayside  station  be 
described  as  a  "  terminus,"  which  is  a  Latin 
word  signifying  the  end,  as  I  fancy  your  son 
Harold  (whom  we  all  find  a  very  promising  and 
attractive  boy)  would  be  able  to  tell  you. — I  am, 
yours  sincerely,  Murray  Collier 


IX 

3//-.  Jahcz  Coplcij  to  the  leading  residents  of  Great 
Burh'ij  and  Neighbourhood 

(cvclostvle) 

The  Missenden  Testimonial   Frxn 

Dear  Sir  (or  Madam), —  I  beg  to  inform  you 
that  at  an  influential  and  representative  meeting 
held  last  evening  at  the  "  King's  Arms,"  it  was 
decided  with  much  regret  not  to  take  any  further 
steps  with  regard  to  the  testimonial  to  Mr. 
Missenden,  and  to  return  to  the  several  donors 
170 


The  Testimonial 

the  £4>,  17s.  Gd.  which  the  united  efforts  of  myself 
and  two  of  my  assistants  have  been  able  to 
collect  in  the  past  month,  minus  an  amount  of 
one  guinea  to  Miss  Millie  Feathers  for  work 
already  done  on  the  illuminated  address,  which 
cannot,  we  fear,  owing  to  the  peculiar  nature  of 
the  wording  and  its  reference  to  Clapham 
Junction,  be  adapted  to  suit  any  other  person. 

If  anything  is  now  done  to  indicate  to  Mr. 
Missenden  that  Great  Burley  appreciates  his 
services,  which  is  very  doubtful,  it  will  be  done 
by  a  few  personal  friends,  at  the  "  King's  Arms." 
I  may  say  here  that  1  have  decided  under  no 
conditions  to  ever  again  undertake  the  duties  of 
Secretary  or  Treasurer  of  a  Testimonial,  whether 
hon.  or  even  well  paid. — Believe  me,  dear  Sir 
(or  Madam),  yours  obediently, 

Jabez  Coplev 

P.S. — As  I  am  now  laying  down  for  ever  the 
pen  of  the  testimonial  promoter,  I  may  return  to 
my  true  vocation  as  a  purveyor  of  high-class 
provisions  by  saying  that  I  have  received  this 
morning  a  consignment  of  sardines  of  a  new  and 
reliable  brand,  which  I  can  do  at  6|d.  the  box. 


171 


VII 
The  Box  ^        ^ 


Mrs:  Smi/t/ic-Sniilh  to  Mrs.  Clishi/ 

Dkar  Mrs.  Clisbv, — I  Avonder  it'  you  would 
care  to  use  the  enclosed  box  for  tlie  Mausoleum 
Theatre  on  Thursday  week.  We  intended  to  go 
ourselves^  but  my  husband  finds  that  he  will 
have  to  travel  North  that  day  in  connection  with 
an  important  case. — With  kind  regards,  I  am, 
yours  truly,  Rlth  Smvthe-S.mitii 

II 

Mrs.  Clishjj  to  Mrs.  Henderson 

Mv   HKAR   Mrs.    HENDEitsoN, — Would    you   and 

Mr.  Henderson  care  to  join   us  at  the  Mausoleum 

on    Thursday    week  .^      We    liave    a  box  for  that 

night,  and  should  be  so  glad  if  you  would  look 

172 


The  Box 

in.     Just  ask  for  Mrs.   Clisby's  box. — With  kind 
regards,  I  am,  yours  sincerely, 

Mabel  Clisbv 


III 

Mrs.  Clishij  lo  her  sister,  Mrs.  Thorns 

My  dear  Sophy, — Our  friends  the  Smythe- 
Smiths  (he  is  the  barrister)  have  sent  us  a  box, 
which  they  are  unfortunately  prevented  from 
using,  for  the  Mausoleum  on  Thursday  week. 
Will  you  and  Henry  join  us }  We  are  also 
asking  some  nice  people  we  met  at  Matlock  in 
the  summer — the  Hendersons.  Mr.  Henderson 
is  in  an  im})ortant  position  at  Lloyd's,  and  his 
wife,  who  is  very  charming,  is  a  cousin  of  Sir 
Wilson  Arkstone,  who  made  the  Corve  Tunnel. 
— Your  lovinoc  M. 


IV 

Mrs.  Thorns  lo  Mrs.  Clisbij 

Dear  Mabel, — We  shall  love  to  come  to  the 
theatre  with  you.  But  Aggie  insists  on  coming 
too,  and  bringing  Bertie  Rawler  with  her.  I  am 
sure  you  won't  mind,  she  has  so  few  pleasures, 
and  Bertie,  who  is  always  so  considerate,  can 
173 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 

stand  at  the  back  if  we  are  at  all  crowded.  He 
is  quite  like  one  of  ourselves  already,  and  I  have 
no  hesitation  in  asking  him  to  do  all  kinds  of 
little  things  like  this.  If  only  he  could  get 
some  permanent  and  lucrative  employment,  we 
should  be  so  happy.  At  present  he  is  an  agent 
for  a  new  kind  of  combined  fountain  pen  and 
office  ruler,  which  he  is  trying  very  hard  to 
introduce  into  the  City,  but  without  much 
success,  I  am  afraid. — Your  loving  S. 


Mrs.  Clishy  to  Mrs.  Thorns 

Mv  DEAR  Sopnv, — I  am  very  sorry  to  have  to 
disappoint  you,  but  really  I  don't  see  how  we  can 
manage  Mr.  Uawler  on  Thursday  night.  I  am 
sure  that  eight  will  be  plenty,  and  Frank,  who  is 
so  impetuous,  entirely  without  my  knowledge 
has  asked  a  Mr.  Flack,  an  American  over  here  on 
business,  to  whom  he  wishes  to  show  some 
kindness,  to  join  us.  So  that  if  Aggie  comes, 
and  I  am  so  sorry  to  have  forgotten  to  mention 
the  dear  girl  when  I  wrote  first,  we  shall  be 
eight — four  couples — without  Mr.  Uawler. — Your 
loving  M. 

'74 


The  Box 

VI 

Mrs.  Thorns  to  Mrs.  Clisbij 

Dear  Mabel, — It  does  not  matter  about  Bertie. 
We  have  arranged  that  he  shall  go  to  the  Upper 
Circle  and  come  and  see  us  between  the  acts. 
Do  tell  me  a  little  more  about  Mr.  Flack.  What 
is  his  business  ?  Some  Americans  can  be  very 
attractive.  I  suppose  he  has  left  his  wife  and 
family  in  America  ? — Your  loving  S. 

VII 

Mrs.  Clishy  to  Mrs.  Thuius 

My  dear  Sophy, — If  Mr.  Rawler  is  coming  to 
see  us  between  the  acts  I  think  he  ought  to  dress. 
Couldn't  he  get  a  seat  in  the  Dress  Circle  ? — Your 
loving  M. 

VIII 

Mrs.  TJwms  to  Mrs.  Clishi/ 

Dear  Mabel, — Of  course  Bertie  will  dress. 
Going  to  the  theatre  is  no  novelty  for  him.  He 
was  at  school  with  two  of  Wilson  Barrett's  sons. 
You  do  not  answer  my  question  about  Mr.  Flack. 
I  always  like  to  know  in  advance  something  about 
the  people  I  am  going  to  meet. — Your  loving 

S. 
175 


Life's   Little  Difficulties 

IX 

Mrs.  ('li.shi/  to  Mrs.  Thouis 

{liil  hand) 

Mv  VERY  DEAFi  SoPHY, — A  most  unfortunatc 
thing  has  happened.  Chancing  to  be  in  the 
neighbourhood  this  morning,  Frank  looked  in  at 
the  theatre  just  to  see  in  the  plan  where  our  box 
was,  and  perhaps  mention  to  one  of  the  officials 
that  you  and  the  Hendersons  would  be  asking 
for  it  in  the  evening.  To  his  horror  he  found 
that  it  was  a  top  box,  capable  of  holding  four 
persons  at  the  most,  two  of  whom  could  not  see 
the  stage  except  by  leaning  over  very  uncom- 
fortably. It  is  unpardonable  of  Mrs.  Smythc- 
Smith  not  to  have  told  me.  The  question  now  is, 
What  shall  we  do  ?  After  thinking  it  over  very 
carefully,  I  wonder  if  you  would  mind  ]K)stponing 
your  visit  to  the  theatre  for  a  while  until  there  is 
a  better  play — the  paj>ers  seem  to  think  very 
little  of  the  thing  now  on — and  bringing  Mr. 
Rawler  to  dinner  on  Sunday  at  half-past  one.  It 
is  so  very  ditiicult  for  me  to  ])ut  off  the 
Hendersons.  I  am  so  sorry  to  have  to  ask  you 
to  ])e  so  unselfish,  but  blood  is  thicker  than 
water,  isn't  it  } — Your  loving  M. 

7*..S'.  —  Mr.  Flack  seems  to  be  a  man  of  means. 
176 


The  Box 

He  is  connected  with  a  new  patent,  and  we  are 
very  glad  to  be  able  to  do  something  to  make  his 
time  in  London  less  lonely.  Frank  in  putting 
him  off  will  make  some  other  arrangement. 

•X 

Mrs.  Thorns  to  Mrs.  Clishy 
{By  hcnul) 
Dear  Mabel, —  What  a  pity  you  did  not  find 
out  how  many  the  box  would  hold !  I  had  a 
feeling,  as  I  mentioned  to  Henry  quite  at  the 
first,  that  you  were  asking  too  many.  Of  course 
we  should  like  to  come  to  dinner  on  Sunday,  and 
will  do  so  with  pleasure ;  but  I  can't  help 
thinking  that  the  best  thing  to  do  now  is  for  you 
to  telegraph  to  the  Hendersons  that  you  are  ill 
and  have  given  the  box  away,  and  then  to  take 
just  Aggie  and  Mr.  Flack.  The  poor  girl  badly 
needs  a  little  excitement,  and  it  would  be  very 
unfortunate  if  Frank  had  to  be  discourteous  to 
this  young  American. — Your  loving  S. 

XI 

Mrs.  CUshy  to  Mrs.  Thorns 
{By  hand) 
Dear  Sophy, — Before  your  reply  came  I    had 
written  to  the  Hendersons  putting  them  off,  but 
M  177 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 

a  telegram  came  from  them  almost  immediately 
after  to  say  that  they  would  not  be  able  to  come, 
as  Mrs.  H.  has  influenza.  I  am  so  vexed  that  I 
wrote.  By  all  means  let  Aggie  come  and  meet 
Mr.  Flack.  Did  I  tell  you  he  is  quite  elderly  ? 
His  wife  came  to  England  with  him,  but  has  gone 
to  Stratford-on-Avon  and  Salisbury  for  a  few 
days. — Your  loving  M. 


Mr.s:  Thorns  to  Mrs.  Clishij 

{By  hand) 

Dear  Mabel, — Aggie  cannot  come  after  all,  as 
Bertie's  brother  is  taking  them  to  the  Hippodrome. 
We  Avill  be  j)unctual  on  Sunday,  and  very  likely 
shall  bring  Bertie's  brother  with  us.  I  am  sure 
you  won't  mind. — Your  loving  S. 


178 


VIII 
The  Doctor's  Visit       ^ 


Mrs.  Baring-Rayne  to  Dr.  Tunks 

{By  hand) 

My  dear  Doctor, — It  would  be  a  great  solace 
and  satisfaction  to  me  if  you  would  in  future 
kindly  change  your  hour  of  call  from  half- past 
eleven  to  half-past  ten  every  morning. — Yours 
sincerely,  Editha  Baring-Rayne 

Oct.  27 


Dr.  Tanks  to  Mrs.  Baring-Rayne 

{By  hand) 

My    dear    Mrs.    Baring-Rayne,  —  Your   very 
reasonable  request  puts  me,  I  regret  to  say,  in  a 

179 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 

])osition  of  some  delicacy.  It  has  long  been  my 
liahit  to  call  on  Miss  Cann  at  half-past  ten,  and 
Col.  Stubbs  at  eleven,  reaching  you  at  11.30. 
Both  these  patients  have  been  in  my  care  for 
some  years,  and  I  feel  sure  that  you  will  see  at 
once  on  reading  this  how  difficult  it  would  be  for 
me  suddenly  to  change  a  custom  of  such  long 
standing. — Believe  me,  yours  sincerely, 

WlLDRAHAM    TuNKS 

Oct.  27 


III 

Mrs.  Baring-Raijne  lo  Dr.  Tunks 

{Bij  hand) 

Dear  Doctor, — I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  cannot 
share  your  view.  Health,  as  I  have  often  heard 
you  say,  is  the  most  important  thing  there  is,  and  I 
am  convinced  that  my  health  would  /';/  even/  naij 
benefit  if  I  could  begin  the  day  earlier.  I  have 
been  reading  a  very  interesting  pamphlet  on  the 
subject  of  early  rising,  and  am  convinced  that  to 
wait  for  you  until  half-past  eleven,  when  so  much 
o{  the  sweetest  and  freshest  part  of  the  daij  is  over, 
is  a  great  mistake.  Of  course  when  I  wrote  I 
assumed  that  you  have  been  sincere  in  your 
interest  in  my  health,  and  would  immediately 
1 80 


The  Doctor's  Visit 

comply  with  so  simple  a  request.     But  life  is  one 
long  disillusionment. — Yours  sadly, 

Editha  Baring-Rayne 

Oct,  27 


IV 

Dr.  Tunhs  to  Miss  Cann 
(Bi/  hand) 

My  dear  Miss  Cann, — I  have  been  thinking 
lately  a  good  deal  about  your  new  pains,  and  I 
cannot  help  feeling  that  it  would  be  better  if  you 
were  to  rest  longer  in  the  morning  before  being 
disturbed.  I  therefore  propose  in  future  to  call 
at  11.30  instead  of  10.30,  at  any  rate  for  a 
sufficient  time  to  test  the  accuracy  of  this 
theory. — Believe  me,  yours  sincerely, 

WiLBRAIIAM    TUNKS 

Oct.  27 

V 

Miss  Cann  to  Dr.  IVilhraham  Tunics 

(JBij  hand) 

My  dear  Doctor, — Your  letter  has  so  shaken 

me  that  I  fear  the  worst.      It  is  quite  imjiossible 

for  me,  as  I  thought  you  knew,  to  remain  in  bed 

so    long.      I    know    of   nothing    so  depressing  as 

i8i 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 

these  long,  solitary  inorniii*j^  hours.  Please  never 
refer  apjain  to  the  subject,  and  l)elieve  me,  yours 
sincerely,  X'ictoria  Cann 

P.S. — Sometimes  I  think  it  would  be  better 
for  all  of  us  if  I  gave  up  the  struggle  altogether. 

v.  C. 

VI 

Dr.  Tunks  to  Mrs.  Baring-B.ai)ne 

{Bif  haml) 

Mv  DEAR  Mrs.  BAHiN(i-KAVNE, — It  grieves  me 
exceedingly  to  have  to  say  so,  but  I  see  no 
possible  way  of  meeting  you  in  your  request  as  to 
change  of  visiting  hours.  Nor  can  I  agree  with 
the  author  of  your  pamphlet  that  it  would  be 
well  for  you  to  begin  the  strain  and  worry  of  the 
day  a  minute  earlier  than  you  now  do.  You 
must,  however,  do  as  you  think  fit.  As  you  know, 
I  am  the  last  person  to  wish  to  imjiose  any 
tyrannical  system  upon  my  patients  and  friends. 
I  should  also  say  that  Miss  Cann,  much  as  I 
should  like  to  effect  an  interchange  of  hours,  is 
not,  I  consider,  in  a  sufficiently  robust  state  to 
bear  it. — Believe  me,  yours  sincerely, 

WlLHRAMAM    TlNKS 

Oct.  L>7 

182 


The  Doctor's  Visit 

VII 

Mrs.  Baring-Uaipie  to  Dr.  Tiinks 

(^By  hand) 

Dear  Doctor, — You  of  course  know  best,  but 
from  the  number  of  tradesmen's  carts  that  draw 
up  at  Miss  Cann's  door  it  is  clear  that  she  at  any 
rate  has  an  appetite.  Whereas  I,  as  you  know, 
have  eaten  nothing  for  years.  But  it  is  evident 
that  there  is  more  in  this  distressing  business 
than  meets  the  eye,  and  I  shall  therefore  take  my 
own  steps  to  protect  my  health.  Do  not  there- 
fore call  to-morrow  at  all. — Yours  truly, 

Editha  Baring-Rayne 


Oct.  2 


VIII 

Mrs.  Baring-Rayne  to  Mr.  Llewellyn 
Boakes,  M.R.C.S. 

{By  hand) 

Mrs.  Baring-Rayne  presents  her  compliments 
to  Mr.  Llewellyn  Boakes,  and  would  be  glad  if 
he  would  call  to  see  her  to-morrow  morning  at 
half-past  ten. 

Oct.  27 

183 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 

IX 

M/\  Buakcs  to  Mrs.  Baring-Iiayne 

{Ihj  Jmml) 

Mr.  Llewellyn  Boakes  Avill  have  great  pleasure 
in  calling  upon  Mrs.  Baring-Rayne  to-morrow 
morning.  He  regrets,  however,  that  owing  to 
appointments  with  other  patients  he  will  be 
unable  to  reach  Mrs.  Baring-Rayne  at  the  hour 
she  names,  but  he  will  be  at  her  house  certainly 
not  later  than  eleven-thirty. 

Oct.  '21 

Extract  from  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Baring-Ixaj/tic  to 
her  Sister-in-law 

If  you  ask  why  my  letter  is  so  dismal,  it  is 
because  I  have  lost  my  regular  medical  attendant. 
It  is  a  long  story,  but  owing  to  a  veri/  curious  line 
of  conduct  which  he  chose  to  take  up,  we  .   .  . 

Xor.  2 

X 

3//.V.  Baring-Ratine  to  ^Ir.  Boakes 

(Bi/  hand) 

Dear  Mr.  Boakks, —  I  have  been  feeling  of  late 
so  much  worse — much  worse  than   I   have  told  vou, 
1 84 


The  Doctor's  Visit 

for  it  is  not  right  to  burden  others  with  all  our 
troubles — that  on  the  advice  of  a  Httle  pamphlet 
I  have  decided  on  a  complete  change  of  routine, 
the  leading  principle  of  which  is  total  avoidance 
of  all  vegetable  food.  Although  I  do  not  as  a 
rule  put  any  faith  in  such  literature,  yet  I  am 
convinced  that  the  writer  of  the  pamphlet  in 
question — a  member  of  your  profession,  by  the 
way — tells  the  truth.  Knowing  as  I  do  from  re- 
marks that  you  have  let  fall  that  you  are  largclij  a 
vesetarian,  I  feel  that  under  these  circumstances 
to  ask  you  to  continue  your  visits  would  be  not 
only  wrong  and  tactless  on  my  part,  but  painful  to 
yourself. — Yours  very  truly, 

Edith  A  Barixg-Rayne 
Nov.  4 


Mrs.  Baring-Rayne  to  Dr.  Tunks 

{By  hand) 

My  dear  Doctor, — I  have  been  a  very  /;//- 
pulsive  and  masterful  woman,  but  all  that  is  over. 
My  heart  to-day  is  like  a  little  child's,  that  knows 
its  true  friends.  Do  let  us  forget  this  terrible 
week  of  misunderstanding  and  cross  purposes.  I 
shall  expect  you  to-morrow  morning  at  half-past 

185 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 

eleven,  just    as    in    the    uld   days.       Imaginative 
symjiatliy  is  so  rare. — Yours  sincerely, 

Edith  A  Baring-Rayne 

P.S. — How  odd  is  this  occasional  reappearance 
of  old  forgotten  characteristics !  You  know  how 
grey,  how  sad,  how  humble,  my  life  is.  Yet 
suddenly  there  breaks  out  this  mood  of  imperi- 
ousness,  which  years  ago  at  school  earned  me  the 
nickname  of  Boey  (short  for  Boadicea).  Where 
has  it  been  slumbering  all  this  time  ?  These  are 
among  the  mysteries.  E.  B.-R. 

Nov.  4 


l86 


IX 

The  Loin  of  Pork         < 


Mrs:  ChilUngham  Bull,  of  ''  The  Cheviots;'  Little 
Wickling,  to  Mr.  Henrij  lugs,  Butcher,  of  Little 
Wickling 

{Bij  hand) 

Mrs.     Chillingham      Bull     finding      that     her 


friendly  verbal  message  by  her  butler  to  Mr. 
Ings  concerning  the  nuisance  caused  by  his 
persistent  killing  of  pigs  at  the  time  when  she 
and  her  household  are  at  family  prayers  has  had 
no  effect^  now  informs  him  that  she  intends  to 
take  measures  to  stop  the  obnoxious  practice. 

Sept.  28 

II 

Mr.  Henrij  Ings  to  Mrs.  Chillingham  Bull 

(B,/  hand) 

Mrs.  Chillingham  Bull,  Dear  Madam, — It  is 
my  wish  to  kill  pigs  as  quietly  as  possible,  not 

187 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 

only  to  cause  as  little  nuisance  as  I  can,  but  also 
out  of  regard  to  my  own  and  Mrs.  Ings's  feelings, 
both  of  us  being  sensitive  too.  The  pig  which 
was  killed  this  morning  at  the  time  you  name 
in  your  favour  of  even  date  was  specially  ordered 
by  Sir  Cloudesley  Scrubbs,  and  could  not  be  kept 
back  owing  to  its  being  market  day  at  Boxton 
and  my  killer  having  to  be  there. — I  am,  yours 
obediently,  Henry  Ings 

Sept.  28 

III 

3//*^.  ChiUingham  Bull  to  Sir  Cluudcslei/  Scruhhs 

{Bi)  hand) 

Dear  Sir  Cloudesley, — I  am  sorry  to  trouble 
you,  but  you  must  put  the  blame  ujioii  my  desire 
to  suppress  a  growing  nuisance  in  our  otherwise 
peaceful  village.  Ings,  the  butcher,  has  con- 
tracted the  disagreeable  habit  of  killing  his  })igs 
between  8.30  and  9^  the  very  time  at  which  we 
have  family  prayers,  and  you  caniu)t  conceive 
how  discordant  and  heartrending  are  the  screams 
that  reach  our  ears  across  the  lawn  at  that  time. 
Perks  remonstrated  with  him  some  time  ago,  and 
we  thought  the  matter  over  ;  but  this  morning 
it  broke  out  again  with  renewed  violence,  and 
on  my  sending  a  j)eremptory  note  Ings  says  that 
i88 


The  Loin  of  Pork 

the  pig  -was  killed  at  that  hour  by  your  instruc- 
tions.     I  shall  be  glad  to  hear  from  you  that  you 
repudiate  the  responsibility. — Yours  sincerely, 
Adela  Chillingham  Bull 
Sejjf.  28 


Sir  Cloudesley  Scrubbs  to  Mrs.  Chillingham  Bull 

(J^y  hand) 

Dear  Mrs.  Chillingham  Bull, — It  is  quite  true 
that  I  ordered  the  pig,  as  we  are  expecting  friends 
who  are  partial  to  pork.  But  I  specified  no  time 
for  its  demise,  least  of  all  that  half-hour  in  which 
you  perform  your  devotions.  Ings,  who  is  the 
most  civil  of  men,  surely  must  mean  that  he 
understood  I  was  in  a  hurry,  and  therefore 
killed  the  pig  directly  the  post  came  in. — Believe 
me,  dear  Mrs.  Chillingham  Bull,  yours  very 
truly,  Vincent  Cloudesley  Scrubbs 

Sept.  28 


Mrs.  Chillincrham  Bull  to  Mr.  Ino;s 

(7i//  hand) 

Mrs.   Chillingham  Bull   having  made  inquiries 
of  Sir  Cloudesley  Scrubbs  finds  that  Mr.  Ings  was 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 

({uite  mistaken  in  thinking  there  was  any  need 
for  the  kilHn<j;  of  the  pig  to  occur  Avhen  it  did, 
and  after  what  has  ha})pened  she  intends  to 
remove  her  custom  to  a  Boxton  butcher  as  a 
mark  of  her  displeasure. 

Sept.  28 


Mr.  Ings  to  Mrs.  ChUlingham  Bull 

{liij  hand) 

Mr.  Ings  presents  his  compliments  to  Mrs. 
Chillingham  Bull,  and  begs  to  enclose  his  account 
of  Xl8,  5s.  6Jd.,  immediate  payment  of  which 
would  oblige.  He  also  wishes  to  give  notice 
that  the  next  times  he  catches  an}'  of  Mrs. 
Chillingham  Bull's  fowls  in  his  garden  (notice 
of  same  having  previously  been  given,  and  a 
stoppage  of  the  nuisance  promised)  he  intends 
to  wring  its  neck. 

Sept.  28 

VI I 

Mrs.  Cliillinghum  Bull  to  Sir  Claudcslcij  Scrubbs 

(^J)ij  /id/id) 

Dear  Sir  Cloudeslev, — 1    hasten   to  send  you 
the     enclosed     offensive    missive    fn»m     Ings.    in 
190 


The  Loin  of  Pork 

response  to  one  from  me  saying  that  I  could 
not  deal  with  him  any  more.  I  think  that 
you  will  see  the  matter  in  the  same  light  that 
I  do.  In  such  cases  neighbours  must  stand  by 
each  other  for  mutual  protection  and  the  har- 
mony of  life. — Yours  sincerely, 

Adela  Chillingham  Bull 
Sept.  28 


Sir  Cloudesleij  Scnihbs  to  Mrs.  Chillingham  Bull 

{Bij  hand) 

Dear  Mrs.  Chillingham  Bull^ — With  every 
desire  in  the  world  to  oblige  you  I  do  not 
see  my  way,  as  you  seem  to  suggest,  to  cease 
to  deal  with  Ings.  For  one  thing  we  like  the 
quality  of  his  meat ;  for  another — and  you  must 
pardon  my  frankness  —  I  cannot  consider  that 
he  has  shown  anything  more  objectionable  than 
an  independent  spirit.  You  say  nothing  about 
the  fowls,  which  he  seems  to  look  upon  as  a 
grievance  at  any  rate  not  more  imaginary  than 
the  pig-killing. — BeUeve  me,  dear  Mrs.  Chilling-. 
ham  Bull,  yours  very  truly, 

YiNCENT    ClOUDESLEV    ScRUBBS 

Sept.  28 

191 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 

IX 

Mrs.  ChUlbigham  IhtJl  to  Sir  Cloudesleij  Scnihhs 

(J^ij  hand) 

Dear  Sir  Cloudeslev, — I  am  sincerely  pained 
at  the  view  which  you  take.  I  cannot  see  wliat 
can  come  of  village  life  if,  as  I  said  before,  we 
do  not  stand  by  each  other.  Ings  has  been  most 
rude  to  me,  and  he  must  be  brought  to  his  senses. 
— Yours  trulv,  Adela  Chillingham   IKll 

Sept.  28 


Mrs.  ChiUingham  Bull  to  Mr.  Blades,  Butcher, 
Boxton 

Will  Mr.  Blades  please  send  to  Mrs,  Chillingham 
Bull  to-morrow  morning  a  fore-quarter  of  lamb 
and  a  wing-rib  of  beef.'' 

Sept.  28 

xi 

Mr.  Perks  to  Mr.  Blades 

Dear    Sni, — Mrs.    Chillingham   Bull,  of  ''The 

Cheviots,"    Little    Wickling,    having   decided    to 

change  her  butcjier,  and    having  begun  to  send 

you  orders,  I  thought  it  interesting   to    let   you 

192 


The  Loin  of  Pork 

know  that  it  was  by  my  advice  that  her  choice 
fell  on  you. — Yours  truly,  Henry  Perks 

Oct,  1 

XII 

Mrs.  Chillingham  Bull  to  Mr.  Blades 

Mrs.  Chillingham  Bull  is  very  dissatisfied  both 
with  the  quality  of  Mr.  Blades's  meat  and  the 
excessive  proportion  of  bone  and  suet,  to  which 
her  attention  has  been  called  by  her  butler. 
Unless  an  improvement  occurs  she  will  have  to 
change  her  butcher. 

Oct.  5 


xm 

Mrs.  Chillinghain  Bull  to  Mr.  Earwaker,  Butcher, 
Boxton 

Will  Mr.  Earwaker  please  send  to  Mrs.  Chilling- 
ham Bull  to-morrow  morning  a  leg  of  mutton  and 
a  sirloin  of  beef.'' 

Oct,  10 


XIV 

Mr.  Perks  to  Mr.  Earwaker 

Dear    Sir,— Mrs.    Chillingham   Bull,  of  "The 
Cheviots,"    Little    Wickling,    having    decided    to 

N  193 


Life's   Little   Difficulties 

change  her  butcher,  and  having  begun  to  send 
you  orders,  I  thought  it  interesting  to  let  you 
know  that  it  was  by  my  advice  that  the  choice 
fell  on  you. — Yours  truly,  Henry  Perks 

Oct.  VZ 

XV 

Mrs.  Chi/li/ig/uu/i  Bull  tu  Mr.  Earnalccr 

Mrs.  Chillingham  Bull  is  very  dissatisfied  both 
with  the  quality  of  Mr.  Earwaker's  meat  and  the 
excessive  proportion  of  bone  and  suet,  to  which 
her  attention  has  been  drawn  by  her  butler. 
Unless  an  improvement  occurs  she  will  have  to 
change  her  butcher. 

Oct.  15 

XVI 

Mrs.  Chillingham  Bull  to  the  Rev.  Dr.  Baylhatii 

Dear  Rector, — I  am  sorry  you  are  away  from 
home,  because  there  is  a  little  difficulty  in  the 
village  which  can  be  settled  only  by  yourself. 
Mr.  Pipes,  though  his  sermons  are  irreproachable, 
and  he  is  most  kind,  has  not  the  needful  tact. 

To  make  a  long  story  short,  your  })ettcd  church- 
warden Ings,  a  few  weeks  ago,  was  very  rude  to 
me  and  I  had  to  take  away  our  custom.  The 
Boxton  butchers  are,  however,  very  bad,  and 
194 


The  Loin  of  Pork 

on  thinking  it  over  I  am  inclined  to  i)ardon  Ing.s_, 
but  I  am  afraid  from  the  attitude  which  he  took 
up  that  he  may  not  accept  my  forgiveness  in  the 
spirit  in  which  it  is  offered  ;  which  would,  of 
course,  be  very  unfortunate  and  wholly  inimical 
to  the  harmony  of  village  life.  I  therefore  write 
to  ask  you  if  you  would  write  to  him. 

Perks,  who  is  much  distressed  about  it  all,  tells 
me  that  we  shall  never  have  good  meat  from  the 
other  butchers,  and  he  is  continually  urging  me 
to  return  to  Ings.  Will  you  not,  dear  Rector, 
once  more  prove  yourself  the  Little  Wickling 
mediator? — Your  grateful  friend, 

Adela  Chillingham  Bull 

P.S. — I  hope  you  are  enjoying  Chamounix.  I 
was  there  with  my  dear  husband  in   1885. 

Oct.  17 

XVII 

Dr.  Basil  Barjlham  to  the  Rev.  Gregorij  Pipes 
Dear  Pipes,— Ourfriend  at  "The  Cheviots  "seems 
to  have  done  something  to  offend  poor  Ings,  with 
the  result  that  that  good  man  has  been  abandoned 
in  favour  of  the  Boxton  trade.  Knowing  both 
as  we  do,  there  can  be  little  doubt  as  to  where 
the  fault  lies.  Mrs.  Bull  writes  to  me  asking  for 
my  mediation,  because,  although  her  spirit  is 
195 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 

Milling  to  continue  the  fray,  the  Hesh  is  weak, 
and  recollections  of  Ings'  excellent  fillets  seem  to 
be  crowdinfj^appetisingly  upon  her,  as  she  struggles 
with  the  Boxton  gristle.  I  leave  the  s.)lution 
to  you  with  perfect  confidence. — Yours, 

K  K 
Oct.  20 

XVIII 

Mr.  Hcnrij  Ings  to  Mrs.  ChiUingham  Bull 

Received  with  thanks  cheque 
for  £18,  OS.  7d. 

Oct.  22 


Henry  Ings 


Stamp 


XIX 

Mrs.  Chillingham  Bull  iu  Mr.  Ings 

Understanding  from  her  butler  that  Mr,  Ings 
has  recently  killed  a  pig,  Mrs.  Chillingham  Bull 
would  be  glad  if  Mr.  Ings  would  send  her  a  loin 
of  pork. 

Oct.  22 


196 


X 

The  Shade  of  Blue       ^       <^        ^        o 

Mrs.  Vincent  OUij  to  Mrs.  Leonard  Sprake 
(  With  enclosure) 

Mv  DEAR  Vera, — Do  be  an  angel  and  go  oft 
at  once  to  Ell's  or  Naval's  and  see  if  you  can 
match  the  enclosed  shade  in  velvet.  I  want  the 
dress  for  Friday  week,  and  there  isn't  a  minute 
to  lose.  It  is  for  Mrs.  Ashley  Carbonel's  At 
Home,  and  you  know  my  reasons  for  wishing  to 
look  well  there.  I  want  two  yards — and  blow  the 
expense,  as  Vinny  says.  Don't  say  you  are  busy 
or  anything,  or  I  shall  have  to  ask  Olive  Shackle  ; 
and  Heaven  knows  I  don't  want  to  be  beholden 
to  her  any  more. — Your  frantic  M. 

Mrs.  Leonard  Sprake  to  Mrs.  Vincent  Ollij 

Dearest  Mildred, — I  have   been  everywhere, 
and  it  can't  be  done.     I  went  first  to  Ell's,  then  to 
Naval's,  then  to  Silkands'  and  Worcester  Nicoll's, 
197 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 

and  then  back  to  Bond  Street  to  Bedford  and 
Hanbury's.  But  all  in  vain.  I  saw  nothing  that 
would  match.  Tell  me  what  to  do  next.  Why 
must  you  have  velvet  ?  I  am  glad  you  asked  vie 
and  not  the  Shackle  girl.  After  your  last  experi- 
ence of  her  'Mimpetude/'  as  Len  calls  it,  you 
should  be  very  shy.  How  long  was  it  she  stayed  ? 
Two  months .''  Some  people  are  beyond  any- 
thing.— Yours,  Vera 

Mrs.  Jlncoit  01  h/  to  Mrs.  Leonard  Sprake 

My  dear  Vera, — I  must  have  velvet.  There 
is  no  way  out  of  it ;  nothing  else  will  do.  Try 
Licence's,  or  one  of  those  Kensington  places, 
Irving  and  Queens'  or  Biter's.  Only  you  must  go 
at  once.  I  would  not  trouble  you  only  I  cannot 
trust  anyone  else's  eye.  Yours  never  makes  a 
mistake.  When  we  meet  remind  me  to  tell 
you  about  Mrs.  Glendenning  and  the  Scripture 
Reader.  It  is  too  delicious  ;  but  much  too  long 
to  write. — Yours  in  despair,  M. 

Mrs.  Leonard  Sprake  to  Mrs.  Jlncent  OUy 

Dearest  Mildred, — I  have  been  to  all  and  not 
one  has  it.     The  nearest  thing  was  at  Licence's, 
but  they  had  onlv  a  ])attern.      'J'he   material  itself 
198 


The  Shade  of  Blue 

is  out  of  stock  and  cannot  be  replaced.  I  even 
tried  the  wilds  of  Oxford  Street,  but  all  in  vain 
too.  You  really  must  give  up  the  idea  of 
matching,  or  try  silk.  The  great  joke  here  is 
that  at  Lady  Bassett's  last  week  Canon  Coss 
found  a  glass  eye  in  the  spinach  and  cut  his  poor 
mouth  horribly.  It  turns  out  to  have  been  the 
new  cook's.  Len  says  there  ought  to  be  insur- 
ance against  such  things.  If  it  had  been  the 
Canon's  eye  and  the  cook's  mouth,  there  would 
be,  he  says. — Yours,  Vera 

Mrs.  Vincent  OUy  to  Mrs.  Leonard  Sprake 
{Telegram) 
Try  Daw's. 

Mrs.  Leonard  Sprake  to  Mrs.  Vincent  Oily 
{Telegram) 

Daw's  no  good.     Do  have  silk. 

Mrs.  Vincent  Oily  to  Mrs.  Leonard  Sprake 
{Telegram) 

Silk  useless.     Try  Orange's. 

Mrs.  Leonard  Sprake  to  Mrs.  Vincent  Oily 
{  With  enclosure) 

My  dear  Mildred, — I  tried  Orange's  without 
avail.       I    should    have    gone    there    sooner,    but 
199 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 

knew  it  would  be  useless.  I  now  return  the 
pattern  with  many  regrets.  I  would  have  still 
made  one  or  two  other  efforts,  but  I  must  go 
down  to  Chislehurst  to-morrow  to  see  mother,  and 
after  that  it  will  be  too  late.  I  still  think  you 
would  have  been  wiser  to  try  some  other  material 
less  difficult  to  match  tlian  velvet.  —  Yours 
with  regret,  Vera 


Mrs.  Jlncc?it  OUij  to  Mrs.  Leonard  Sprakc 

Dear  W.ra, — I  think  you  are  very  selfish  and  in- 
considerate. Your  visit  to  your  mother  cannot  be  so 
fearfully  important,  and  I  seem  to  rememl^er  other 
occasions  when  she  had  to  stand  over  for  lots  of 
more  attractive  engagements.  Still,  you  must,  of 
course,  do  what  you  want  to  do.  I  am  sending 
the  pattern  to  Olive  Shackle,  who,  in  spite  of  her 
faults,  is,  at  any  rate,  zealous  and  true. — Yours 
disappointedly  and  utterly  tired  out,  M. 

Miss  Olive  Shackle  to  Mrs.  Vincent  Olh/ 

My  sweet  Mildred, — I  am  sending  you  the 
velvet  by  special  messenger ;  which  is  a  luxury  to 
which  I  am  sure  you  will  not  mind  my  treating 
myself  I  got  it  at  once  at  KU's,  from  my  own 
special  counter-man  there.  He  had  put  it  on 
200 


The  Shade  of  Blue 

one  side  for  another  old  customer,  but  made  an 
exception  for  me.  How  I  should  love  to  see  you 
in  your  beautiful  dress  throwing  everyone  else  at 
Mrs.  Ashley  Carbonel's  into  the  shade !  I  was  to 
have  been  with  the  Rutters  at  Church  Stretton 
for  the  week-end,  but  poor  dear  Mrs.  Rutter  has 
just  written  to  say  that  her  sister  is  dangerously 
ill  at  Woodhall  Spa  with  something  that  may 
very  likely  develop  into  peritonitis,  and  she  has 
had  to  put  off  all  her  guests. — Yours  ever, 

Olive  Shackle 


Miss  Olive  Shackle  to  Mrs.  Vincent  Oily 
(JFelegravi) 

Will  come  with  pleasure. 


201 


XI 


The  Smithsons,  the  Parkinsons,  and  Col. 
Home-Hopkins  ^c^        <z^        ^ 


Miss  Daisij  Hopping  to  a  lifelong  school  friend 
{Extract) 

The  news  is  that  mother  is  going  to  give 
another  No.  1  dinner  party,  the  first  for  three 
years.  We  are  to  have  waiters  from  London 
instead  of  poor  old  Smart,  the  greengrocer,  who 
hreatlies  down  your  back,  and  two  special  entrees, 
and  the  champagne  tliat  grandpapa  left  us  instead 
of  what  Dick  always  calls  the  Tete  Montee  brand 
for  local  consumption.  And  the  county  ])eople 
are  asked  this  time — no  Smithsons  and  Parkinsons 
and  Col.  H()me-H<)})kins,  and  the  other  regular 
old  stodgers  who  go  to  all  the  parties  within  a 
radius  of  six  miles.  It  is  all  because  Uncle  and 
Aunt  Mordaunt  are  coming  from  India,  and  he 
has  just  got  a  C'.S.I. 

202 


The  Smithsons,  Etc. 


Messrs.  Paid  and  Casserole  to   Mrs.  Monlgomenj 
Hopping 

Madam^ — In  reply  to  your  esteemed  favour 
of  the  22nd  we  would  suggest  queiieUes  dc  volaille 
aux  champignons  as  one  entree  and  ris  de  veau  a 
r Armandine  as  the  other.  The  two  waiters  will 
come  to  you  by  the  3.5  from  Euston. — We  are, 
Madam^  yours  faithfully, 

Patti  and  Casserole 


III 

Miss  Daisy  Hopping  to  the  same  lifelong  school 
friend.       [Extract^ 

Mother  is  in  her  best  temper,  as  all  the  guests 
she  has  asked  have  accepted.  Lena  and  I  are 
not  to  come  down  to  dinner,  because  there  won't 
be  room,  but  we  are  to  go  in  afterwards,  and 
mother  is  giving  us  new  dresses.  Mine  is  [thirty 
lines  omitted.]  So  you  see  it's  an  ill  wind  that 
blows  nobody  any  good.  Uncle  Mordaunt  will 
talk  about  Stonehenge  all  the  time,  but  they 
all  say  they  are  so  charmed  to  be  going  to  meet 
him. 

203 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 


Mrs:  Leonard  Halt  to  Mrs:  Montgonicrij  Hopping 

Dear  Mrs.  Hopping, — I  am  so  very  sony  to 
have  to  tell  you  that  we  shall  not  be  able  to 
dine  with  you  on  the  M\  after  all,  as  my  husband 
is  ill  with  a  chill.  You  will,  I  know,  be  glad  to 
hear  that  his  temperature  is  now  nearly  normal, 
after  a  very  anxious  time,  but  the  doctor  forbids 
all  thought  of  going  out  of  doors  for  at  least 
ten  days.  I  am  exceedingly  sorry,  as  we  were 
so  looking  forward  to  the  evening  at  your 
pretty  house  and  to  seeing  dear  Sir  Mordaunt 
again. — I  am,  yours  sincerely, 

Mildred   Hatt 


V 

Ladij  Durdham  to  the  Hon.  Mrs.  fill  lie  Ross 

Dear  Nanny, — We  reached  town  yesterday, 
after  a  dcliglitful  cruise,  and  now  we  want  to  see 
you  and  Willie  more  than  anything,  so  come  up 
on  the  ."Jth,  Thursday,  and  we  will  go  somewhere, 
and  have  su])])er,  and  talk  it  all  over.  If  you 
have  an  engagement,  break  it. — Yours, 


204 


The  Smithsons,   Etc. 


The  Ho7i.  Mrs,  Willie  Ross  to  Mrs.  Montgomerij 
Hopping 

Dear  Mrs.  Hopping, — It  is  very  distressing  to 
me  to  have  to  decline  an  invitation  after  accept- 
ing it,  but  I  have  just  discovered  that  we  have 
an  engagement  for  the  5th  which  cannot  be  put 
off.  I  am  so  very  sorry,  and  I  promise  I  will 
never  be  so  careless  again — if  you  ever  give 
me  another  chance !  Believe  me,  dear  Mrs. 
Hopping,  yours  very  truly, 

Annette  Ross 


VII 

Canon  Bath  to  Mrs.  Montgomerij  Hopping 

My  dear  Mrs.  Hopping, — I  very  deeply  regret 
to  have  to  write  as  I  must ;  but  we  are  all  servants 
and  at  the  mercy  of  our  masters,  and  the  Bishop 
has  just  signified  his  intention  of  visiting  Widdes- 
don  on  the  day  of  your  charming  party,  and  has 
asked  me  to  be  his  host. 

To    so    good    a    churchwoman    as    yourself    I 

need    not    say   more,   except    that   I   am    deeply 

concerned  to  have  to  break  faith  with  you  and 

to    miss    a    congenial    antiquarian    gossip    with 

205 


'  Life's  Little  Difficulties 

vSir  Mordaunt. — Believe  nie,  dear   Mrs.  Ilojiping, 
yours  sincerely^  Olivkr   Bath 

Mil 

Mrs.  Vansitlart  to  Mrs.  Montgomery  Hopping 

Dear  Mrs.  Hopping, — I  have  put  off'  writing 
till  the  last  moment,  hoping  that  the  necessity 
might  pass,  but  I  am  now  forced  to  say  that  I 
shall  not  be  able  to  dine  with  you  on  the  5th. 
Poor  Arthur  was  brought  home  on  Saturday, 
from  mixed  hockey,  so  badly  bruised  and  injured 
that  he  has  been  in  bed  ever  since  and  recjuircs 
constant  attention.  I  am  sure  that  you  (who 
also  are  a  mother)  will  understand  that  I  should 
not  like  to  leave  him  in  this  state  even  for  an 
evening  ;  and  so  I  hasten  to  let  you  know. — Yours 
sincerely,  Kate  Vaxsittart 

P.S. — You  will  j)lease  tell  Sir  Mordaunt  and 
Lady  Ho})})ing  that  I  am  deeply  grieved  not  to 
meet  them. 

IX 

Mrs.  Montgomery  Hopping  to  Messrs.  Patti  and 
Cusscrolc.      ( TclcgraDi^ 

Mrs.    Montgomery    ll{)i)ping  will   not   require 
either  the  cntn'rs  or  the  waiters  for  the  5th. 
206 


The  Smithsons,  Etc, 


Miss  Dalsi/  Hopping  to  the  same  lifelong  school 
friend,     (^Eo'tract) 

This  house  isn't  fit  to  live  in.  Everyone  who 
was  invited  has  backed  out,  except  old  General 
Stores,  who  says  he  put  off  going  to  the  South 
of  France  on  purpose.  Mother  never  thought 
he  would  come  at  all.  If  it  weren't  for  him, 
mother  (who  is  more  like  a  whirlwind  than 
anything  I  ever  experienced)  says  she  would 
have  no  party  at  all  ;  but  now  she  must  go  on 
with  it,  especially  as  she  told  Uncle  Mordaunt. 
And  so  it  means  the  Smithsons  and  the  Parkin- 
sons and  Col.  Home-Hopkins  after  all.  The 
worst  of  it  is  we  are  not  to  have  new  dresses. 

XI 

Mrs.  Parkinson  to  Mrs.  Montgomery  Hopping 

Dear  Mrs.  Montgomery  Hopping, — It  will 
give  Mr.  Parkinson  and  myself  such  very  great 
pleasure  to  dine  with  you  on  the  5th  to  meet 
your  distinguished  brother-in-law.  A  dinner 
party  at  your  house  is  always  such  an  event,  and 
in  our  remote  neighbourhood,  where  excitements 
are  so  few,  short  notice  perhaps  adds  to  the 
delight. — Believe  me,  yours  sincerely, 

Mildred  Parkinson 
207 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 


Col.  Home-Hopkins  to  Mrs.  Montgomei-y  Hopping 

Mv  DEAR  Ladv, — Your  word  is  always  law, 
and  you  may  count  on  me  to  be  on  your  hospit- 
able doorstep  at  the  stroke  of  eight.  Would 
that  you  had  said  seven,  that  an  hour  of  hap})i- 
ness  were  added  !  I  beg  you  not  to  apologise  for 
what  you  call  short  notice.  No  notice  should  be 
too  short  to  a  soldier. — I  am,  dear  Lady,  yours  to 
command,  Edgar   Home-Hopkins 

XIII 

Mrs.  Smithson  to  Mrs.  Montgomcri/  Hopping 

My  dear  Mrs.  Hopping, — It  would  give  Mr. 
Smithson  and  myself  much  pleasure  to  accept 
your  kind  invitation  were  it  not  that  we  are  a 
little  in  bondage  to  a  visitor,  a  niece  of  my 
husband's,  such  a  very  nice  girl,  who  is  staying 
with  us  before  taking  up  a  position  at  Cannes  as 
a  conij)ani()n  to  a  very  interesting  old  lady,  tlie 
widow  of  Commander  Muncaster,  who,  you  may 
remember,  died  a  few  weeks  ago.  As  we  do  not 
quite  like  to  leave  Madeline  alone  all  the  even- 
ing, I  wondered  if  1  miglit  bring  her  with  me. 
She  is  a  very  nice  girl,  and  quite  the  best  jnipil 
at  the  (luildhall  School  of  Music  last  year. 
208 


The  Smithsons,  Etc. 

Perhaps  you  would  like  her  to  bring  some  music 
with  her.  I  know  it  is  often  a  help.  But  of 
course,  dear  Mrs.  Hopping,  you  will  say  at  once 
if  it  is  inconvenient  or  likely  to  put  your  table  out, 
and  then  we  can  perhaps  get  Miss  Moberly  to 
come  in  for  the  evening  and  bring  her  knitting, 
and  keep  Madeline  company,  as  I  should  not  like 
to  refuse  your  very  kind  invitation.  The  Doctor 
was  saying  only  the  other  day  how  long  it  was 
since  we  had  the  pleasure  of  dining  with  you. 
As  for  short  notice,  I  hope  you  won't  mention  it. 
It  is  so  difficult  often  to  give  long  notice,  as  I 
know  only  too  well. — Yours  very  truly, 

Martha  Smitiison 

P.S. — I  find  I  have  not  said  how  glad  we  shall 
be  to  see  Sir  Mordaunt  and  Lady  Hopping. 


M?'s.  Montgomery  Hopping  to  Mrs.  Smart 

To  Mrs.  Smart, — I  am  glad  your  husband  can 
come  for  Thursday  evening.  I  am  counting  on 
him  to  be  here  at  five  to  help  with  the  silver, 
and  I  shall  want  some  mushrooms  if  you  can 
get  them,  some  French  beans,  and  two  heads  of 
celery.  E.   Montgomery   Hopping 


209 


XII 
White  Finings"         < 


Miss  Vesta  Siran  to  the  Thalia  and  Erato 
Press,  Ltd. 

Dear  Sirs, — I  am  sendinfr  you  by  registered 
post  the  MS.  of  a  volume  of  poems,  entitled 
White  Pmings,  in  the  hope  that  you  ^vill  like 
them  sufficiently  to  undertake  their  publication. 
The  poems  are  entirely  orio^inal,  and  have  never 
before  (with  one  exception)  been  printed.  It  was 
once  my  intention  to  print  them  from  time  to 
time  in  the  better  class  weekly  papers,  but  after  a 
while  that  idea  was  abandoned.  The  exception 
is  the  rondeau  called  "Coral  Toes/'  which 
appeared  in  the  liahifs  Friend,  but  there  would  be 
no  difficulty  about  co])yrii^ht.  I  am  sure. — Yours 
truly,  Vksta  Swan 

2IO 


White  Pinines  " 


The  Thalia  and  Erato  Press  to  Miss  I'esta  Sivan 

Dear  Madam^ — Our  Reader  reports  that  he  has 
read  White  Pinings  with  much  interest,  and  that  in 
his  opinion  the  book  is  in  every  way  m  orthy  of  pub- 
lication. Poetry,  howe\  er,  as  you  perhaps  are  not 
unaware,  is  no  longer  read  as  it  used  to  be.  This 
apathy  is  the  result,  some  think,  of  the  interest 
in  motors,  but  according  to  others  is  due  to  the 
fashion  of  Bridge.  Be  it  as  it  may,  no  great  sale 
can  be  expected  for  such  a  book,  and  our  Reader 
therefore  suggests  that  you  should  combine  with 
us  in  this  enterprise.  Of  course  if  the  book  is 
successful  your  outlay  would  come  back  to  you 
multiplied  many  times.  We  calculate  that  a  first 
edition  of  White  Pinings  would  cost  £100,  and  we 
suggest  that  each  of  us  contributes  £50. 

Awaiting  your  reply,  Me  are,  dear  Madam, 
yours  faithfully. 

The  Thalia  and  P^rato  Press 
per  A.  B.  C. 


HI 

Miss  Vesta  Sivaii  to  the  Thalia  and  Erato  Press 

Dear    Sirs, — I    am   glad    to    know    that   your 
Reader  thinks  so  highly  of  my  book.      Would  it 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 

be  indiscreet  to  ask  his  name? — there  are  two  or 
three  points  concernin*:;  the  poems  wliicli  I  sliould 
like  to  put  to  liim. 

I  am  aware  that  tlie  ordinary  run  of  })oetry  is 
not  profitable,  but  there  are  shininf^  examj)les  of 
success.  I  have  just  been  reading  the  Life  of  the 
late  Lord  Tennyson,  who  seems  to  have  been 
quite  wealthy,  although  he  wrote  comparatively 
little  ;  and  I  gather  that  the  Brownings  also  Avere 
well-to-do.  One  of  my  friends  considers  my 
style  not  unlike  a  blend  of  both  Robert  and 
E,  B.,  although  (being  a  woman)  naturally  more 
like  the  latter.  I  understand  also  that  both  Mr. 
Swinburne  and  Mr.  Alfred  Austin  are  quite 
comfortably  off.     So  that  there  are  exceptions. 

I  should  say  also  that  IV.  P.  is  not,  as  you  think, 
my  first  book.  I  published  in  189(),  through  a 
firm  at  Winchester,  a  little  collection  called  Heart 
Beats,  a  copy  of  which  was  sent  to  Her  late 
Majesty  Queen  Mctoria. 

None  the  less,  as  I  believe  in  my  work  and 
wish  others  to  have  the  opjiortunity  of  being 
cheered  by  it,  I  will  \y.\\  the  £50.  Please  ])ut 
the  book  in  hand  at  once,  as  I  want  it  to  come 
out  with  the  Aj)ril  buds. — ^'ours  truly, 

\'k.sta  Swan 


"  White  Pining^ 


The  Thalia  and  Erato  Press  to  Miss  Vesta  Swan 
{Extract) 

We  enclose  a  contract  form,  -which  please  sign 
and  return  to  us  with  cheque.  Any  letter 
intended  for  our  Reader  will  be  at  once  forwarded 
to  him. 


Miss  Vesta  Smtn  to  the  Reader  of  her  MS. 

Dkar  Sir, — I  should  very  much  like  to  have 
your  opinion  of  the  "  Lines  written  at  midnight 
after  hearing  Miss  Clara  Butt  sing  ^The  Lost 
Chord.'  "  Do  you  think  the  faulty  grammar  in 
line  4  of  stanza  2 — "  loud  "  the  adjective,  for 
^'  loudly  "  the  adverb — is  permissible  ?  I  have 
already  spent  some  time  in  polishing  this  poem, 
but  I  have  so  high  an  opinion  of  your  judgment 
that  I  am  ready  to  begin  again  if  you  say  I 
should.  And  do  you  think  the  title  should  be 
merely  White  Finings  or  that  it  should  have 
the  sub-heading  —  "Sighs  of  a  Priestess  of 
Modernity"?  One  of  my  friends,  a  young 
journalist,  favours  the  latter  very  warmly. 

I  might  add  that  I  have  a  very  kind  letter 
from  the  secretary  of  Sir  Thomas  Liptt)n,  wlio 
213 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 

read  the  })oems  in  MS.,  praising  them  in  no 
measured  terms.  Do  you  think  it  would  do  the 
book  good  if  we  were  to  print  this  letter  in  fac- 
simile at  the  beginning  r — I  am,  yours  truly, 

Vesta  Swan 

[Scrcral  letters  oiuiltcd] 

XVI 

Miss  Vesta  Swan  to  the  Thalia  and  Erato  Press 
{Telegram) 

Stop    printing.       Serious    misprint,    page    41. 
"  Heave  on  coal  "  should  be  ''  Heaven  our  goal." 

Wll 

The  'Thalia  and  Krato  Press  to  Miss  Vesta  Snan 
[Telegram) 

Too  late,      l^rror  unimportant. 

[Sereral  letters  omitted] 

win. 

Miss  Vesta  Siran  to  the  Thalia  and  Krato  Press 
{Extract) 

.    .    .    And    will    you   ))lcasc    be   sure   to  send  a 
copy    with     the     author's     C()nij)limcnts    to     Mr. 
214 


"White  Finings  " 

Andrew  Lang,  as  1  hear  he  is  so  much  interested 
in  new  poets  ? 

[From  a  vast  correspondence  the  following  s'la:  letters 
have  been  selected^ 

XXXI 

Miss  Vesta  Swan  to  the  Thalia  and  Erato  Press 
{Extract) 

.  .  .  My  friends  tell  me  that  they  have  great 
difficulty  in  buying  White  Finings.  A  letter  this 
morning  says  that  there  is  not  a  bookseller  in 
Blackburn  who  has  heard  of  it. 


Miss  Vesta  Swan  to  the  Thalia  and  Erato  Fress 

Dear  Sirs, — Several  persons  have  told  me 
lately  that  they  have  looked  in  vain  in  the 
literary  papers,  ever  since  White  Finings  was 
published,  for  any  advertisement  of  it,  and  they 
have  found  none.  Many  of  the  books  of  the  day 
are,  I  notice,  advertised  very  freely,  with,  I  have 
no  doubt,  good  results — Mr.  Hall  Caine's  last 
novel,  for  example.  Curiously  enough,  one  of  my 
poems  ("  An  Evening  Reverie/'  page  76),  contains 
very  much   the    same    moral   as    his    new    book. 

2^5 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 

Could  you  not  intimate  that  fact  to  the  i)ul)lic 
in  some  way  ?  Please  send  me  twelve  more 
copies. — Yours  truly,  Vesta  Swan 

LIV 

Miss  Vt'sta  Swan  to  the  Thalia  and  Erato  Press 

Dear  Sirs, —In  the  report  in  the  papers  this 
morning  of  the  Bishop  of  London's  address  on 
the  reconcilement  of  the  Letter  and  the  S})irit, 
there  is  a  most  curious  anticipation  of  a  statement 
of  mine  in  the  poem,  "  Let  us  ponder  awhile," 
on  page  132  of  White  Pinings.  I  think  that  the 
enclosed  paragraph  mentioning  the  coincidence 
might  be  sent  to  the  Athena'um.  I  am  told  that 
all  the  other  papers  would  then  copy  it. — Yours 
truly,  Vesta  Swan 

LIX 

Miss  J' est  a  Siran  to  the  Thalia  and  Erato  Press 
(Extraef) 

A  friend  of  mine  got  out  of  the  train  and 
asked  at  all  the  bookstalls  between  London 
and  Manchester  for  Jl\  P.,  and  not  one  had  it. 
Is  not  this  a  scandal.^  Something  ought  to  be 
done  to  raise  the  tone  of  railway  reading.  Please 
send  me  six  more  copies. 
216 


White  Pinings  " 


Miss  Vesta  Swan  to  the  Thalia  and  Erato  Press 
{Ediract) 

I  am  told  that  a  few  years  ago  a  volume  of 
poems  was  advertised  by  sandwichmen  in  London 
streets.  Could  not  White 'Pinings  be  made  known 
in  this  way  ? 

xc 

The  Thalia  and  Erato  Press  to  Miss  Vesta  Swan 

Dear    Madam, — We    have    much    pleasure   in 
enclosing  the  first  review  of  your  poems  that  has 
reached  us.     Doubtless  now  that  a  start  has  been 
made,  many  more  will  follow. — Yours  faithfully, 
The  Thalia  and  Erato  Press 
per  A.  B.  C. 
[1  End.] 

From  the  Scots  Reader 

One  of  the  most  amusing  misprints  that  we  can  recollect 

occurs  in  IVhite  Pinings  (Thalia  and  Erato  Press),  by  Vesta 

Swan,   which  otherwise  is  not  noteworthy.      The  poetess 

undoubtedly  wTote  : 

"Watch  the  progress  of  the  soul 
Struggling  aye  to  heaven  our  goal;" 

but  the  waggish  printer  has  made  her  say, 

"Struggling  aye  to  heave  on  coal." 


217 


XIII 
The  Christmas  Decorations 


The  Rev.  Laivrenee  Lidhetter  to  his  curate,  the  Rev. 
Arthur  Starlmg 

Dkak  Starling^ — I  am  sorry  to  aj^pear  to  be 
running  away  at  this  busy  season,  but  a  sudden 
call  to  London  on  business  leaves  me  no  alterna- 
tive. I  shall  be  back  on  Christmas  Eve  for 
certain,  perhaps  before,  ^'ou  must  keep  an  eye 
on  the  decorations,  and  see  that  none  of  our 
helpers  get  out  of  hand.  I  have  serious  doubts 
as  to  Miss  Green. — Yours,  L.  L. 

II 

Mrs.  Clihhorn  to  the  Rev.  La/rre/uf  Lidhetter 

Dkaii    Kkctom, — I     think    avc    have     got    over 
the   dilliculty    >vl)iclj    wc  were   talking    of —  Mr. 
218 


The  Christmas  Decorations 

Lulham's  red  hair  and  the  discord  it  would 
make  with  the  crimson  decorations.  Maggie 
and  Popsy  and  I  have  been  working  Uke  slaves, 
and  have  put  up  a  beautiful  and  effectual  screen 
of  evergreen  which  completely  obliterates  the 
keyboard  and  organist.  I  think  you  will  be 
delighted.  Mr.  Starling  approves  most  cordi- 
ally.—  Yours  sincerely,  Mary  Clibborn 


III 

Miss-  Pill  to  the  Ixcv.  Laivrvucc  Lidhcttcr 

My  dear  Mr.  Lidbetter, — We  are  all  so  sorry 
you  have  been  called  away,  a  strong  guiding  hand 
being  never  more  needed.  You  will  remember 
that  it  was  arranged  that  I  should  have  sole 
charge  of  the  memorial  window  to  Colonel  Soper 
— we  settled  it  just  outside  the  Post  Office  on 
the  morning  that  poor  Blades  was  kicked  by  the 
Doctor's  pony.  Well,  Miss  Lockie  now  says  that 
Colonel  Soper's  window  belongs  to  her,  and  she 
makes  it  impossible  for  me  to  do  anything.  I 
must  implore  you  to  write  to  her  putting  it  right, 
or  the  decorations  will  be  ruined.  Mr.  Starling 
is  kind,  but  quite  useless. — Yours  sincerely, 

Virginia   Pitt 
219 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 

IV 

Miss  Loc/iic  /<)  the  licr.  La/rrc/icc  Lidbcttcr 

Mv  DEAR  Mh.  Lidbetter, — I  aiii  sorry  to 
have  to  trouble  you  in  your  enforced  rest,  but  the 
interests  of  the  cluirch  must  not  be  neglected, 
and  you  ought  to  know  that  Miss  Pitt  not  only 
insists  that  the  decoration  of  Colonel  Soper's 
window  was  entrusted  to  her,  but  prevents  me 
carrying  it  out.  If  you  recollect,  it  was  during 
tea  at  Mrs.  Millstone's  that  it  was  arranged  that 
1  should  be  responsible  for  this  window.  A 
telegram  to  Miss  Pitt  would  put  the  matter 
right  at  once.  Dear  Mr.  Starling  is  always  so 
nice,  but  he  does  so  lack  firmness. — Yours 
sincerely,  Mabel  Lockie 

V 

Mrs.  St.  John  to  llic  Rev.  Lawrence  Lidhetter 

Dear  Rector, —  I  wish  you  woukl  let  Miss 
Green  have  a  line  about  the  decoration  of  the 
pulpit.  It  is  no  use  any  of  us  saying  anything  to 
her  since  she  went  to  the  Slade  School  and 
ac(piired  artistic  notions,  but  a  word  from  you 
would  work  wonders.  What  we  all  feel  is  that 
the  pul})it  should  be  bright  and  gay,  with  some 
cheerful  texts  on  it,  a  suitable  setting  for  you 
220 


The  Christmas  Decorations 

and  your  helpful  Christmas  sermon,  but  Miss 
Green's  idea  is  to  drape  it  entirely  in  black 
muslin  and  purple,  like  a  lying  in  state.  One 
can  do  wonders  with  a  little  cotton-wool  and 
a  few  yards  of  Turkey  twill,  but  she  will  not 
understand  this.  How  with  all  her  noiivcau  art 
ideas  she  got  permission  to  decorate  the  pulpit 
at  all  1  cannot  think,  but  there  it  is,  and  the 
sooner  she  is  stopped  the  better.  Poor  Mr. 
Starling  drops  all  the  hints  he  can,  but  she  dis- 
regards them  all. — Yours  sincerely, 

Charlotte  St.  John 


Miss  Olive  GrccN  to  the  Rev.  Lawrence  Lidhelter 

Dear  Mr.  Lidbetter, — I  am  sure  you  will  like 
the  pulpit.  I  am  giving  it  the  most  careful 
thought,  and  there  is  every  promise  of  a  scheme 
of  austere  beauty,  grave  and  solemn  and  yet  just 
touched  with  a  note  of  happier  fulfilment.  For 
the  most  part  you  will  find  the  decorations  quite 
conventional  —  holly  and  evergreens,  the  old 
terrible  cotton-wool  snow  on  crimson  background. 
But  I  am  certain  that  you  will  experience  a  thrill 
of  satisfied  surprise  when  your  eyes  alight  upon 
the  simple  gravity  of  the  pulpit's  drapery  and  its 

221 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 

Howins^  sensuous  lines.  It  is  so  kind  of  you  to  give 
me  this  opportunity  to  realise  some  of  my  artistic 
self.  Poor  Mr.  Starling,  who  is  entirely  \'ictorian 
in  his  views  of  art,  has  been  talking  to  me  about 
gay  colours,  but  mv  work  is  clone  for  ifoii  and  the 
few  who  can  itndcrstancL — Yours  sincerely, 

Olivp:  Green 


VII 

Mrs.  MiUstouc  lo  the  Rev.  Lawrence  Lidhetter 

Dkar  Hk(  tor, — Just  a  line  to  tell  you  of  a 
delightful  device  I  have  hit  upon  for  the  decora- 
tions. Cotton-wool,  of  course,  makes  excellent 
snow,  and  rice  is  sometimes  used,  on  gum,  to 
sucfirest  winter  too.  But  I  have  discovered  that 
the  most  perfect  illusion  of  a  white  rime  can  be 
obtained  by  wetting  the  leaves  and  then  sprinkling 
Hour  on  them.  I  am  going  to  get  all  the  others 
to  let  me  finish  off  everything  like  that  on 
Christmas  Eve  (like  varnishing-day  at  the 
Academy,  my  husband  says),  when  it  will  be  all 
fresh  for  Sunday.  Mr.  Starling,  who  is  proving 
himself  such  a  dear,  is  delighted  witJi  the  scheme. 
I  hope  you  are  well  in  that  dreadful  foggy 
city. — Yours  sincerely,  An\   Mh.i.stonk 


222 


The  Christmas  Decorations 


Mrs.  Hohhs,  chanronian,  to  the  Rev.  Lawrence 
Lidbetfer 

Honoured  Sir_, — I  am  writing  to  you  because 
Hobbs  and  me  dispare  of  getting  any  justice  from 
the  so  called  ladies  who  have  been  turning  the 
holy  church  of  St.  Michael  and  all  Angels  into  a 
Co  vent  Garden  market.  To  sweep  up  holly  and 
other  green  stuff  I  don't  mind,  because  I  have 
heard  you  say  year  after  year  that  we  should  all 
do  our  best  at  Christmas  to  help  each  other.  I 
always  hold  that  charity  and  kindness  are  more 
than  rubys,  but  when  it  comes  to  flour  1  say  no. 
If  you  would  believe  it,  Mrs.  Millstone  is  first 
watering  the  holly  and  the  lorrel  to  make  it  wet, 
and  then  sprinkling  flour  on  it  to  look  like  hore 
frost,  and  the  mess  is  something  dreadful,  all  over  the 
cushions  and  carpet.  To  sweep  up  ordinery  dust  I 
don' t  mind,  more  particulerly  as  it  is  my  paid  work 
and  bounden  duty ;  but  unless  it  is  made  worth 
my  while  Hobbs  says  I  must  say  no.  We  draw  the 
line  at  sweeping  up  dough.  Mr.  Starling  is  very 
kind,  but  as  Hobbs  says  you  are  the  founting 
head. —  Awaiting  a  reply,  I  am,  your  humble 
servant,  Martha  Houbs 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 

IX 

Mr.s.  Viuisittarl  lo  I  he  Rev.  La/r/rncc  lAdhetter 

Dkah  Rkctok, — If  I  am  late  \vitli  the  iiortli 
windows  YOU  must  uiKlcrstaiul  tliat  it  is  not  my 
fault,  but  Pedder's.  He  has  suddenly  and  most 
mysteriously  adopted  an  attitude  of  hostility  to  his 
em})loyers  ((juite  in  the  way  one  has  heard  of 
gardeners  doing),  and  nothing  will  induce  him  to 
cut  me  any  evergreens,  whicli  lie  says  he  cannot 
spare.  The  result  is  that  })oor  Horace  and  Mr. 
Starling  have  to  go  out  with  lanterns  after  Pedder 
has  left  the  garden,  and  cut  what  they  can  and 
convey  it  to  the  church  by  stealth.  I  think  we 
shall  manage  fairly  well,  but  thought  you  had 
better  know  in  case  the  result  is  not  ecjual  to  your 
anticipation. — Yours  sincerely, 

Gracl  \'ansitt.\rt 

X 

3//-.  Lulham,  organist  (o  the  lur.  La/nrncr  Lidhcilii- 

1)i:au  Snt, —  I  shall  be  glad  to  have  a  line  from 
you  authorising  me  to  insist  upon  the  removal  of 
a  large  screen  of  evergreens  which  Mrs.  Clihboni 
and  her  daughters  have  erected  by  the  organ. 
There  seems  to  be  an  idea  that  thr  oruan  is 
unsightlv,  although  we  have  had  no  complaints 
224 


The  Christmas  Decorations 

hitherto,  and  the  effect  of  this  barrier  will  be  to 
interfere  very  seriously  with  the  choral  part  of 
the  service.  Mr.  Starling  sympathises  with  me, 
but  has  not  taken  any  steps. — Believe  me,  yours 
faithfully,  Walter  Lulham 


XI 

The  Rev.  Lawrence  Lidhetter  to  Mrs.  Lidbtiter 

My  dearest  Harriet, — I  am  having,  as  I  ex- 
pected, an  awful  time  with  the  decorations,  and 
I  send  you  a  batch  of  letters  and  leave  the 
situation  to  you.  Miss  Pitt  had  better  keep  the 
Soper  window.  Give  the  Lockie  girl  one  of  the 
autograph  copies  of  my  Narrow  Path,  with  a 
reference  underneath  my  name  to  the  cha2:)ter  on 
self-sacrifice,  and  tell  her  how  sorry  1  am  that 
there  has  been  a  misunderstanding.  Mrs.  Hobbs 
must  have  an  extra  half-a-crown,  and  the  flouring 
must  be  discreetly  discouraged — on  the  ground  of 
waste  of  food  material.  Assure  Lulham  that  there 
shall  be  no  barrier,  and  then  tell  Mrs.  Clibborn 
that  the  organist  has  been  given  a  pledge  that 
nothing  should  intervene  between  his  music  and 
the  congregation.  I  am  dining  with  tlie  Lawsons 
to-night,  and  we  go  afterwards  to  the  Tempest,  I 
think. — Your  devoted  L. 

P  225 


XIV 

The  Prize  Competition  ^i>        .i>        ^> 

I 

Miss  Bristowe  to  her  niece,  Miss  Grace  Bristoive 

My  dkar  Gracie, — Your  Aunt  Sophie  and  I 
liave  been  thinking  so  much  of  late  about  your 
brave  resolve  to  earn  a  little  money  for  yourself 
and  be  independent  of  your  dear  father,  who  has 
burdens  enough  on  his  purse,  Heaven  knows ! 
We  have  not  heard  what  you  have  decided  to  do, 
but  have  great  doubts  as  to  the  lasting  lucrative- 
ness  of  poker-work,  unless  tlone  on  a  very  large 
scale.  And  bookbinding,  we  understand,  needs 
a  long  and  rather  exj)ensive  apprenticeship. 
Sweet-pea  growing,  I  read  somewhere  recently, 
can  be  i)rofitable,  but  that  needs  not  only  know- 
ledge but  land,  and  I  doubt  if  your  father  ct»uld 
spare  you  that;  and  I  believe  all  the  glebe  is  let. 
226 


The  Prize  Competition 

Poor  man,  he  will  soon  need  all  the  rent  the  glebe 
brings  in  if  these  terrible  Radicals  have  their  own 
way  much  longer,  with  their  dreadful  views  about 
the  Church.  But  what  I  wanted  to  tell  you  was 
that  your  aunt,  when  at  a  garden  party  at  the 
Hall  yesterday,  met  a  very  attractive  girl  who 
had  already  received  three  guineas  in  prizes  from 
the  Westminster  Gazette,  and  is  quite  confident  of 
making  much  more.  I  doubt  if  you  ever  see  the 
Westminster  Gazette,  which  is  certainly  not  your 
dear  father's  colour  at  all,  but  it  is  in  other  ways 
quite  a  nice  paper,  and  really  tries  to  be  fair, 
I  think,  even  if  it  fails.  We  see  it  whenever 
your  uncle  comes  here,  as  he  always  brings  it 
with  him.  It  seems  that  every  Saturday  there  is 
a  prize  competition,  Avith  quite  good  prizes,  for 
literary  people,  and  you  were  always  so  clever 
with  your  pen.  Your  aunt  says  that  the  one  for 
next  week  is  quite  easy — to  write  a  poem  of  four 
lines,  the  first  two  lines  of  which  end  with  the 
words  "editor"  and  "coastguard."  The  prize  is 
a  guinea.  Surely  you  could  do  that.  I  will  write 
for  a  Westminster  Gazette  and  send  it  to  you  as 
soon  as  it  comes,  with  all  the  particulars. — With 
love,  I  am  your  affectionate 

Aunt  Meta 


227 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 


II 


3//.V.V  (iiacc  Bristoirc  f<t  Iirr  ainif,  Miss  Bnstonc 

Dear  Aunt  Meta, — How  very  good  of  you  — 
just  when  I  was  getting  so  desperate,  too !  Of 
course  I  will  try — in  fact,  I  have  tried  already, 
but  it  is  not  as  easy  as  you  think,  because  there 
are  so  few  rhymes  to  either  of  the  words.  Jack 
is  going  to  try  to  get  me  a  cheaj)  copy  of  a 
rhvming  dictionary  when  he  goes  to  town  to- 
morrow, and  I  am  writing  to  Uncle  Basil  to  help 
me  too.  Mr.  Rainey-Spong  is  also  interesting 
himself  in  it.  As  he  nearly  won  the  Xewdigate 
and  is  just  bringing  out  a  volume  of  poetry  he 
ought  to  be  very  useful.  We  have  been  having 
some  ripping  tennis  this  summer. — Much  love. 
Your  loving  Gracie 


Miss  Grace  Bristoivc  to  her  uncle,  Basil  Ileriul,  All 
Souls   College,  Oxford 

Mv  nEAR  Uncle  Basil, — You  are  so  very 
clever,  will  you  help  me  with  a  piece  of  literary 
work  that  I  have  on  hand  't  I  am  trying  to  write 
a  poem  the  third  line  of  wliic  h  must  rhyme  to 
"editor"  and  the  fourth  line  to  "coastguard." 
If  I  do  it  better  than  anyone  else  I  shall  earn  a 
228 


The  Prize  Competition 

guinea,  and  that  is  a  good  deal  in  these  hard 
times,  especially  as  I  want  a  new  driver,  and  a 
brassie  too.  Please  write  by  return  of  post  if  you 
can. — Your  loving  niece,  Grace 


Basil  Heriot  to  his  niece,  Grace  Bristowe 

My  dear  Niece, — I  fear  you  have  applied  to 
the  wrong  source,  and  even  if  I  had  any  of  the 
mastery  of  bouts  rimes  with  which  you  are  kind 
enough  to  credit  me,  I  could  not  waste  any 
time  on  such  frivolity  just  now,  since  all  my 
strength  is  needed  for  the  completion  of  the  tenth 
volume  of  my  commentary,  and  even  this  letter 
to  you  is  making  sad  inroads  on  the  day's  routine. 
I  gather  from  your  hurried  note  that  you  are 
competing  for  some  newspaper  prize.  If  you 
must  do  such  things,  I  wish  you  would  make  an 
effort  to  win  one  of  the  JVestminsters  guerdons 
offered  for  skill  in  transliterating  from  the 
English  into  Greek.  That  would  be  worth 
doing ;  but  possibly  you,  with  your  unfortunate 
addiction  to  manly  pursuits,  are  of  a  different 
opinion.  I  wish  you  would  try  to  be  more  like 
your  aunt  Frideswide,  who  had  written  an  essay 
on  the  Chanson  de  Rolaml  before  she  was  your 
229 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 

age  and  still  knows  nothing  of  golf.  If  ever  I 
can  help  you  in  a  more  serious  and  worthy 
dirficulty,  I  shall  be  glad  to  make  the  time;  but 
before  you  propound  your  queries  I  hope  you  will 
be  quite  sure  in  your  mind  that  it  is  I,  and  I  only, 
who  can  answer  them. — Your  affectionate  uncle, 

Basil  Heriot 


V 

Miss  Grace  Bristowc  to  her  aunt,  Miss  Bristuwe 

Dear  Aunt  Meta, — I  am  not  having  such  an 
easy  time  as  you  expected,  and  I  am  beginning 
to  believe  in  the  saying  that  nothing  good  is  ever 
done  except  by  hard  work.  Jack  could  not  get  a 
rhyming  dictionary  second-hand,  and  it  seemed 
absurd  to  spend  much  on  a  new  one,  and  the 
stupid  boy  hadn't  the  sense  just  to  turn  to  those 
two  words  in  the  sho}).  Uncle  Hasil,  too,  was  not 
very  helpful.  He  seems  to  think  that  light 
poetry  is  hardly  worth  writing  in  l>nglish  at  all. 
As  for  poor  Mr.  Haincy-Spong,  I  happened  to 
mention  to  father  that  we  were  composing  a  poem 
in  collaboration,  ;ind  he  was  furious,  and  said  he  did 
not  pay  curates  for  that,  and  made  him  visit  all 
kinds  of  old  frumps  as  a  punishment.  But  I  think 
it  will  be  all  right. — "N'our  loving  (ii{\(iK 

2  ;o 


The  Prize  Competition 

VI 

The  Rev.  At  hoi  Rainey-Spong  to  Miss  Grace 
Bristoivc 

Dear  Miss  Gracie, — I  am  sending  you  by 
Gibbings's  boy  the  fruits  of  my  industry.  I  wish 
it  could  have  been  more  worthy,  but  I  have  had 
an  unexpected  number  of  small  duties  to  perform 
during  the  past  two  days. — Yours  most  sincerely, 

A.  R.-S. 

VII 

Miss  Grace  Bristoivc  to  her  aunt,  Miss  Bristowe 

Dear  Aunt  Meta, — Here  it  is.  Will  you  please 
send  it  in  for  me,  so  as  to  save  time? — Your 
loving  niece,  Gracie 

PS. — I  have  already  spent  half  the  money  on 
a  perfectly  adorable  puppy — an  Aberdeen,  quite 
pure. 

VIII 

Miss  Bristoivc  to  her  niece,  Miss  Grace  Bristoivc 

My  very  dear  Gracie, — I  have  such  sad  news 
for  you.  The  Westminster  Gazette,  which  was 
delayed  in  the  post,  has  only  just  come,  and  I 
find,  to  my  great  disappointment,  that  there  were 
certain  very  restricting  and,  I  think,  very  unfair 
231 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 

conditions  to  that  competition.  The  rules  say 
that  neither  "creditor"  nor  "postcard"  maybe 
used ;  and  this,  I  fear,  disquaHfies  your  really 
very  excellent  poem,  wliich  therefore  I  return.  I 
am  so  very  sorry  to  liave  raised  your  hopes  so 
groundlessly. — Your  affectionate      Aunt  Meta 

P.S. — I  hope  you   will   be  able   to  induce  the 
people  to  take  back  the  dear  little  doggie. 


T/tc  Rcr.  Atliol  liainci/Spong  to  Messrs.  Peter  c*^*  Co., 
publishers 

Dfar  Sirs, — I  enclose  one  more  trifle  which  I 
should  like  printed  at  the  end  of  the  book,  in  the 
section  entitled  Leriore  plectra. 

iMrUoMTTU 

IVr'iilen  at  iJie  rcipic.st  oj  a  \ioung  huh/  irlio 
supj)hed  the  author  irith  the  ternii/tal  fronts  of  the 
first  tiro  lines,  and  challenged  him  to  complete  the 
tpiatrain. 

Station  is  naui;lit.     Tliis  man's  a  brilliant  editor, 
And  that  a  simple,  plain,  vmlettercd  coastguard  ; 

Vet  this  one's  life's  made  sad  by  many  a  creditor, 
While  that  will  beam  at  Init  a  picture  postcard. 

Relieve  me,  yours  faithfully, 

AtIIOL    UAINKV-SroNO 

232 


XV 
The  Cricket  Club  Concert      <:>        ^        ^^ 


The  Rev.  Ccesar  Dear  to  Ladij  Bird 

Dear  Lady  Bird,  —  It  will  give  so  much 
pleasure  in  the  village  if  you  could  see  your 
way  to  carry  out  a  promise  which  you  very  kindly 
made  in  the  summer,  and  be  the  moving  spirit  in 
the  concert  which  is  to  be  held  on  the  19th  for 
the  Cricket  Club.  With  the  many  well-known 
artistes  whom  you  expressed  yourself  able  to 
induce  to  perform,  the  concert  cannot  but  be  an 
unqualified  success,  and  the  new  roller  assured 
to  us. 

I  might  say  that  the  names  of  Miss  Ellaline 
Terriss  and  Miss  Gertie  Millar,  whom  you  felt 
confident  of  getting,  when  i)laced  before  the 
Cricket  Club  Committee  elicited  the  warmest 
enthusiasm.  So  also  did  that  of  Mr.  Lewis 
Waller.  —  Believe  me,  dear  Lady  Bird,  yours 
sincerely,  Cesar  Dear 

233 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 


Ladif  liird  to  titc  Rev.  C(vsar  Dear 

Dear  Rector, — I  am  sorry  that  engagements 
keep  me  in  town,  as  I  should  have  liked  to  have 
talked  this  concert  over  with  you.  I  will  certainly 
manage  it ;  but  I  have  a  feeling — mere  instinct, 
perhaps,  rather  than  reason,  but  I  always  trust 
my  instinct  implicitly,  and  have  never  known  it 
fail  me :  indeed,  all  my  troubles  have  come  from 
want  of  faith  in  it — that  to  get  London  performed 
would  be  a  mistake.  After  all,  this  is  a  village 
concert,  and  the  rustics  will  feel  much  more  at 
home  if  the  performers  are  their  own  people. 
Will  you  therefore  send  me  a  few  names  of  singers 
in  the  neighbourhood  to  whom  I  can  write  ?  You 
will  be  glad  to  hear  that  I  have  prevailed  on  Sir 
Julian  to  tell  some  stories  of  Big  Game  shooting 
in  Nigeria,  and  my  cousin  Captain  Ide  has  pro- 
mised to  imitate  Mr.  Beerbohm  'J'ree.  My  own 
contribution  will  be  a  share  in  a  little  French 
duologue. — Yours  sincerely,  Millie  Biro 

III 

Lad,/  liird  to  Mr.  llaU-IIall 

Lady  Bird  having  undertaken,  at  the  request 
of  Dr.  Dear,  to  get  up  the  concert  on  the   17th. 
-34 


The  Cricket  Club  Concert 

she  would  be  enchanted  to  learn  that  Mr.  Hall- 
Hall  would  be  willing  to  give  one  of  his  delightful 
recitations.  Mr.  Hall-Hall  will  be  glad  to  hear 
that  Sir  Julian  has  promised  to  deliver  a  short 
address  on  his  experiences  with  Big  Game  in 
Nigeria. 

IV 

Mr.  Hall-Hall  to  Ladij  Bird 

Mr.  Hall-Hall  presents  his  comphments  to 
Lady  Bird  and  will  be  very  glad  to  assist  in  the 
concert  on  the  17th.  He  does  not,  however, 
recite,  as  Lady  Bird  seems  to  think,  but  sings  bass. 


v 
Lady  Bird  to  Miss  Effie  Plumber 
Lady  Bird  presents  her  compliments  to  Miss 
Effie  Plumber,  and  would  be  very  glad  if  she 
would  sing  at  the  Cricket  Club  Concert  on  the 
1 7th.  Lady  Bird  recently  heard  a  very  attractive 
song  called  "  Hyacinth,"  which  she  would  recom- 
mend to  Miss  Plumber's  notice.  Lady  Bird 
herself  intends  to  take  part  in  a  short  French 
duologue,  and  Sir  Julian  will  give  the  audience 
the  benefit  of  his  Big  Game  experiences  in 
Nigeria. 

235 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 

VI 

Miss  EJfie  Plunihvr  to  IauIij  IVird 

Miss  Effie  Pluinl)er  presents  her  compliments 
to  Lady  Bird,,  and  begs  to  say  that  she  will  be 
pleased  to  sing  at  the  Cricket  Club  Concert  on 
the  17th.  Miss  Effie  Plumber  thanks  Lady  Bird 
for  her  suggestion^  but  she  is  in  the  habit  of 
singing  "The  Holy  City"  and  "Jerusalem"  on 
these  occasions,  with,  for  an  encore,  "  Daddy," 
and  she  cannot  see  any  reason  for  departing  from 
custom. 

VII 

The  Rev.  Cu'sar  Dear  to  Ladif  Bird 

Dear  Lady  Bird, — Chancing  to  meet  Miss 
Plumber  this  morning,  I  find  that  she  is  under 
the  impression  that  she  is  to  sing  for  us  on  the 
17th.  I  hasten  to  correct  this  misapprehen- 
sion, if  it  is  also  yours,  because  the  date  is  the 
19th. — I  am,  dear  Lady  15ird,  yours  sincerely, 

CiESAR   Dkar 

vni 

Lddij  ])ird  to  tlic  Rev.  Cwsar  Dear 

Dkah  Kkctoh, — Owing  to  the  very  unfortunate 
way  in  which  you  made  the  figure  J)  in  your  first 
236 


The  Cricket  Club  Concert 

letter  about  the  concert,  I  took  it  for  a  7,  and 
have  asked  everyone  for  the  17th.  Will  you 
therefore  chan<re  the  date  to  that  night  ? — Yours 
sincerely,  Millie  Bird 


The  Rev.  Ccvsar  Dear  to  Lady  Bird 

My  dear  Lady  Bird, — I  regret  exceedingly 
the  ambiguity  in  the  numeral.  My  writing  is 
usually  considered  so  clear.  I  regret  also  that 
the  alteration  of  the  date  to  the  I7th  is  impossible, 
for  several  reasons.  I  have  no  doubt,  however, 
that  you  will  be  able  to  get  most  of  those  who 
are  helping  us  to  come  on  the  19th,  and  to  find 
among  your  great  circle  of  friends  and  acquaint- 
ance others  to  take  the  place  of  the  one  or  two 
that  cannot.  I  should  like  to  have  a  complete 
list  of  names  as  soon  as  possible. — Believe  me, 
dear  Lady  Bird,  yours  sincerely, 

Cesar  Dear 


Lady  Bird  to  Mr.  Hall-Hall 

Lady  Bird  presents  her  compliments  to  Mr. 
Hall-Hall,  and  regrets  to  say  that,  owing  to  a 
mistake  of  the  Rector's,  the  date  of  the  concert 
was  given  in  her  letter  as  the  17th  instead  of 
the  19th.  She  trusts  that  the  change  of  evening 
237 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 

Avill  make  no  difrcrence  to  Mr.  Hall-Hall,  and 
that  he  will  still  favour  the  company  with  one  of 
his  chaiTTiing  recitations.  Did  Lady  Bird  say  in 
her  previous  letter  that  Sir  Julian  was  intending 
to  relate  some  of  his  experiences  with  Big 
Game  ? 

XI 

hady  Bird  to  the  Ucv.  Ca'sar  Dear 

Dear  Rector, — I  am  very  sorry  that  you  will 
not  alter  the  date.  This  luckless  piece  of 
illegible  writing  of  yours  may  ruin  the  whole 
evening.  As  my  uncle  the  Archbishop  used  to 
say,  "  Great  events  often  have  the  smallest 
beginnings."  But  now  that  the  date  is  the  19th 
for  certain,  it  must  not  be  changed,  and  we  must 
do  what  we  can.  Perha})s  the  most  unfortunate 
thing  is  that,  on  a  little  capricious  impulse,  I 
decided  after  all  that  a  slight  leaven  of  the  real 
thing  might  be  good,  and  asked  Mr.  Hayden 
Coffin  and  Miss  Isabel  Jay  for  the  17th,  and 
both  promised,  saying  that  that  night  was  the 
only  one  that  was  free  to  them  for  months  and 
months.  This  is  truly  the  irony  of  fate.  At 
present  all  I  can  count  on  is  Sir  Julian's  Big 
Game  stories,  which  promise  to  be  very  in- 
teresting, es])ecially  as  he  is  taking  lessons 
in  elocution ;  Captain  Ide's  imitations  of  Mr. 
238 


The  Cricket  Club  Concert 

Beerbohm  Tree  ;  roy  own  share  in  a  little  French 
duologue  ;  and  a  few  local  efforts,  including  one 
of  your  friend  Mr.  Hall-Hall's  recitations  (not 
"  Ostler  Joe/'  I  hope  !). — Yours  sincerely, 

Millie  Bird 

XII 

Telegram  from  the  Rev.  Ccusar  Dear  to  Lady  Bird 

Am  altering  date  to  I7th  to  secure  Coffin 
and  Jay.  Dear 

XIII 

Telegram  from  Ladij  Bird  to  the  Rev.  Caesar  Dear 

Do  not  alter  date.  Have  just  heard  both  Coffin 
and  Jay  uncertain.  No  reliance  on  artistic  tem- 
perament. Bird 

XIV 

Mr.  Hall-Hall  to  Ladij  Bird 

Mr.  Hall-Hall  presents  his  compliments  to 
Lady  Bird,  and  regrets  that  he  will  be  unable  to 
assist  in  the  concert  on  the  1 9 th  by  reason  of  an 
old  engagement.  Mr.  Hall-Hall  begs  again  to 
assure  Lady  Bird  that  he  does  not  recite,  but 
sings  bass. 

XV 

Lady  Bird  to  the  Rev.  (\vsar  Dear 

My    dear    Rector, — I    am    exceedingly   sorry, 
but    the  responsibility  of  this  concert  has  worn 
239 


Life's  Little  Difficulties 

me  to  such  an  extent  that  Sir  Julian  insists  on 
our  leaving  at  once  for  the  Riviera.  Ever  since 
the  discovery  of  that  unfortunate  slip  of  yours  in 
the  date,  I  have  felt  the  strain.  I  am  one  of  those 
who  cannot  take  things  liglitly.  I  am  either  all 
fire  or  quite  cold.  I  have  been  all  fire  for  your 
concert  and  its  dear  charitable  object,  and  the 
result  is  tfeat  I  am  worn  out,  consumed.  Wreck 
though  that  I  am,  I  would  persevere  with  it  to 
the  end  if  Sir  Julian  would  allow  it ;  but  he  is  a 
rock.  I  therefore  enclose  all  the  correspondence 
on  the  subject,  which  will  show  you  how  the  case 
stands  and  make  it  very  easy  for  you  to  com- 
plete the  aiTangements.  All  the  hard  work  is 
done. — Believe  me,  with  all  good  wishes,  yours 
sincerely,  Millik   Bnu) 

P.S. — Sir  Julian  is  having  his  Big  Game 
reminiscences  type-written  for  you  to  read  to 
the  audience.  They  are  most  thrilling.  I  have 
instructed  Grant  to  send  down  the  lion-skin 
hearthrug  for  the  evening.  It  should  be  hung 
over  a  ciiair  so  that  the  two  hullet-lioles  show. 
There  might  be  a  lighted  candle  behind  it  with 
advantage. 


Pfinted  by  Morrison  &  Gibd  Limited,  EtHnbur^h 


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